


You'll Never Find Love In An Open Hand

by daisywillliveforever



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Antonio's a nerd, Feli smokes a lot of pot, Lovino thinks he's a bad boy, Ludwig likes handcuffs a little too much, M/M, some illegal drug use, their grandfather just wants them to get laid
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-19
Updated: 2017-02-08
Packaged: 2018-05-14 22:53:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 27,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5761990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daisywillliveforever/pseuds/daisywillliveforever
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lovino and Antonio aren't partners for their end of semester English project. That doesn't mean they don't argue about it in their spare time.<br/>OR<br/>The High School AU that ran away from me.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a short oneshot? What is my life??  
> Title from "Handshake" by Two Door Cinema Club

Lovino was using his third cigarette to light a fourth when the lunch bell rang.

The sound was tinny in the courtyard. Lovino cringed as the sound reverberated off the brick walls. Their original hue was meant to be red, Lovino guessed, but years of exposure to the elements had left them a scuffed, gray color. Vines of ivy climbed up in one corner, curling itself around the windows like some sort of disease. The metal tables—the kind that caused first degree burns beneath the baking sun in June—were deserted, and would be for several more months. The frigid cold of winter kept everyone inside the warm cafeteria and out of the open air.

Lovino tapped the ash of his cigarette onto the concrete beneath his feet. He took a steady drag, watching the exhale of smoke twist against the bitter wind. Lovino couldn’t blame his classmates for wanting to avoid the cold. Lovino didn’t mind as much, but then again he adapted to situations easily.

That’s what his grandfather said, anyway. Lovino wasn’t sure if he agreed, but it was easier to pretend to understand what his Nonno was saying. There were less lectures about life and wine and pretty women that way.

Lovino didn’t hear the door open, but he’d gotten pretty good at ignoring things like that. He just assumed it was someone he didn’t particularly want to talk to, and the urge to pay attention disappeared completely.

“Fratello.” Was Feliciano’s only greeting, as he slid up against the wall until their shoulders were brushing—Lovino’s worn leather to Feli’s soft letterman.

So it was someone he liked after all. What a surprise.

Lovino took a final drag before tossing the burnt cigarette stub aside, tilting his head to look at his brother.

Feliciano grinned lazily back, his hair messy and his eyes impossibly bloodshot. Lovino watched him blink once, slowly, before his eyes drifted.

“It’s sad, with no one here.”

Lovino agreed. Even though he wouldn’t be able to smoke out here in the upcoming spring months, it was somewhat desolate in the courtyard without anyone else around. During the latter weeks of March, Lovino began the annual struggle of commandeering a table for himself, his brother, and his brother’s boyfriend Ludwig.

Instead of voicing his agreement, Lovino scowled. “You’ve been smoking.”

It wasn’t a question.

Feliciano tilted his head down, toward the abandoned pile of crushed cigarette butts. “So have you.”

He was too astute for his own good. How he managed to stay so alert while stoned off his ass was a true feat, and Lovino never understood how he did it.

“Whatever.” He mumbled against his coat collar, ignoring Feliciano’s smug, victorious smirk. It was subtle; the slight tilt of his lips almost gentle, but years of memorizing his brother’s mannerisms taught Lovino differently.

The two stood outside, their breaths visible as they exhaled, until the cafeteria door opened. Lovino heard, for a brief moment, the sounds of shuffling feet and chairs scraping against linoleum and students’ chatter, before the door slammed shut again. Lovino sighed, chasing the warm drift of air that escaped the building.

“We have class in ten minutes.” A familiar voice said, though it was clearly not directed at him. Lovino glanced over his brother’s shoulder at Ludwig Beilschmidt, who had his hands shoved into his black hoodie and his shoulders hunched against the cold.

“Luddy!” Feliciano squealed, vaulting himself at his boyfriend so fast that had Lovino blinked he’d have missed it. Feli wrapped himself against Ludwig—whose expression softened but didn’t reach out to return the gesture.

Clearly he was too cold to even remove his hands from his pockets. What a pussy.

Lovino ached for a fifth cigarette.

“Hey potato eater.” Lovino shouted as a greeting, his fingers twitching as if to pull the cig to his lips. There wasn’t one, of course, but it was nice to imagine.

Ludwig huffed as Feli disentangled himself.

“Oh, don’t be mean.” Feliciano whined, without force.

“I’m not. It’s not my fault that my Italian blood does better in this weather than his potato blood anyhow.”

Feliciano’s brow scrunched. Ludwig appeared equally as confused.

“What does that even mean?” He asked. He shuffled his stupid steel-toed boots, presumably in an attempt to warm himself.

“Shut up, you know what I meant.”

Feliciano giggled into Ludwig’s sweatshirt. “I don’t think he does.” He mumbled, before giggling again with a soft “ve”.

Whatever.

“Whatever.”

Silence again.

“Right.” Ludwig cleared his throat. He was incredibly awkward around Lovino, because he knew Lovino hated him with a burning passion. That wasn’t entirely true, of course—Lovino only pretended to hate most people, Ludwig included. It was easier that way—if Feliciano got hurt Lovino could claim he knew all along about that no good potato bastard and wouldn’t feel guilty about smashing his face in.

It was easier to pretend to hate people. It was a rule that Lovino followed religiously; life was less disappointing in the long run.

“Class?” Feliciano said, sounding less dazed. At least he didn’t smell like weed, Lovino thought. He might be able to pass up his red eyes for exhaustion or crying. He’d used both excuses before.

“Right. Ja, class. We have,” Ludwig shuffled around Feliciano to pull his arm out of his front pocket, glancing at his watch, “Five minutes.”

Feliciano giggled again, latching his lips to Ludwig’s neck without preamble. Ludwig, bless him, pushed at Feliciano with frantic glances in Lovino’s direction. “Feli—“

Feliciano linked their arms, pulling them toward the cafeteria doors. “Ve, we have four minutes that could be spent in that broom closet, you know, the one you found yesterday by the art hallway… Oh! Bye fratello!”

“If you get my brother pregnant, I’ll hunt you down, potato bastard!” He shouted in return, ignoring the sound of Ludwig’s sputtering cough and his brother’s rambunctious laughter.

Lovino reached into his back pocket. Time for that fifth smoke.

* * *

Lovino stumbled into English class a half second before the final bell trilled across the intercom. He scanned the room, searching for a place to sit.

The seats were filling up fast. Shit, did they have assigned seats? Lovino couldn’t remember.

The teacher swept into the room, barely noticing Lovino as she brushed past him on the way to her desk. Lovino shot another frantic glance at the room. There weren’t any seats left at all, which couldn’t be right, because _he_ was supposed to have a desk, right? That’s how things worked—there were always enough desks for each student to have their own. Unless he’d skipped so much that they thought he’d switched schools, or _died,_ or something, and they’d removed his desk ages ago, and—

“Pst, Lovino?” Came a quiet voice to Lovino’s left, and he startled so suddenly it was a wonder he didn’t fall over.

The guy who said his name had a feminine, weedy face—with wide eyes so blue they were almost violet and long blonde hair pushed back save for one unruly strand. The desk next to his was thankfully empty, and Lovino didn’t even bother responding as he threw his stuff down with a huff. 

The teacher—Lovino couldn’t remember her name—had begun to write on the board. Lovino couldn’t be bothered with following what she was doing, and instead turned to the guy next to him. He looked awfully familiar, but Lovino couldn’t place him. He must’ve at least heard of Lovino; after all, the guy knew his name.

He was writing in a notebook, and seemed to be ignoring the way that Lovino was watching him. At least, if the way he was resolutely not even glancing in Lovino’s direction was any indication.

“—as we’ve been reviewing great American works from the twentieth century—“

“Do I know you?”

The pencil’s movement came to a halt. The guy tensed, his shoulders drawing up against his body as though expecting an attack.

“—F. Scott Fitzgerald’s _The Great Gatsby— **“**_

“Because you must know me.”

“—Harper Lee’s _To Kill a Mockingbird—_ “

“I, um. I don’t think so?”

His voice was soft, the tone hesitant. He reminded Lovino of Feli—if Feli had been born with a filter between his mouth and his brain and a sense of self preservation.

“Really? ‘Cause you knew my name earlier.”

“—Kurt Vonnegut’s _Slaughterhouse-Five—“_

The guy avoids looking at Lovino. His shoulders are still up around his ears.

“I just wanna know how you know me. I don’t know you and I haven’t bothered showing up to this shit show in months.”

“—What do all these novels have in common?”

“They all suck major diiiiick!” Came a shout from the back of the classroom.

The guy next to Lovino groaned and dropped his head into his hands. There was a smattering of laughter following the declaration, but the teacher was unamused.

“Mr. Jones. Detention.”

“What!” Came the inevitable protest. The guy next to him was muttering something to himself. Lovino couldn’t quite make it out, but it sounded scary none the less. He scooted his chair resolutely toward the aisle.

“Speak to me at the end of class—“

“C’mon, it was funny Ms. B! Everyone thought it was funny! Mattie—Yo, Mattie bro, back me up on this one—“

The guy next to him mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like “should’ve stayed in Canada”.

“Mr. Jones, I wasn’t finished. _Please_ stay after class so I may speak to you about the specifics of your punishment, and until then, remain seated at your desk without saying a word.” Her arms went to her hips, and her narrowed gaze was clearly enough to shut Jones up because there was silence throughout the room as she continued. “Now, as I was saying, before I was so rudely interrupted, what do _The Great Gatsby, How to Kill a Mockingbird,_ and _Slaughterhouse-Five_ all have in common as works of literature?”

A hand went up in the front row.

“Yes,” Mrs. B said on a relieved exhale, a smile working its way onto her face, “Mr. Carriedo.”

“They all criticize an aspect of society which was a prevalent source of debate during the time period in which the author wrote the work.”

Lovino snickered, as subtly as possible, into his hand.

“Do you have something to say, Mr.--?”

Shit. Apparently he hadn’t been as quiet as he’d hoped.

Oh well, too late now. Must as well make this as amusing as possible for himself.

“Vargas. And yeah, that’s true. But you could say that about anything, right? I mean, what author doesn’t criticize something about some society in a book they write? It’s a bullshit connection, if you ask me, cause you can connect _any_ two books that way, right?”

The guy who’d spoken—Carriedo—turned around so fast it was a wonder he didn’t get whiplash. He glared at Lovino from across the room—not that it was intimidating or anything. The guy looked like a slightly more buff version of Steve Urkel.

Not that Lovino was looking at the guy’s muscles. Not at all. Lovino was just noting that Carriedo had slightly larger biceps than most high school nerds.

“Vargas,” Ms. B snapped, her lips thinning, “What Mr. Carriedo said was accurate. It was the correct answer, and I think—“

“But he’s right.” The guy next to Lovino spoke up. “You really can connect any two books that way. Um, I mean, look at _The Hunger Games._ Our current media is constantly criticized in that novel, with the public’s ability to be entertained by needless gore and the government’s ability to manipulate it if needed. Even books like, um, like _Twilight_ criticize the media, though Twilight does it unintentionally, as the entire novel itself is a crack at the type of meaningless stories we take for entertainment these days, what with Bella being a mindless teenager and Edward manipulating her. Not to mention the writing style is atrocious, um, but everyone seems to like it… so.”

The guy straightened his glasses. Lovino wanted to know his name so he could engrave it on a plaque to be mounted on the wall. It would say something like “The Guy: Stood Up to Ms. B(atshitcrazy)- 1st Place”.

(Lovino decided then and there that he wouldn’t pretend to hate this guy. Even if he stuttered a little, and had a soft face, he had balls. Lovino could openly respect that.)

“Well then. You two,” Ms. B gestured wildly between the two of them, “Can be partners on the end of semester project, then. Since you hold similar views on these works. Of. Literature.”

Lovino hid his grin behind his hand.

Carriedo sent him one last non-scary look before turning back around.

“I will be handing out partner assignments along with the project guidelines. If you have any projects, please, hesitate to ask. Mr. Carriedo, if you would…”

Lovino tuned her out. He’d been doing that with most people his whole life anyway.

“So.” He said, turning towards the guy. “I never did learn your name?”

“It’s, um, it’s Matthew.” The guy replied, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear.

“Nice to meet you, Matthew. You seem pretty chill for a guy who wears glasses.”

Matthew laughed weakly. “Thanks.”

“I never did learn how you knew my name, anyway.”

Matthew adjusted his glasses, pushing them up his nose until his eyelashes were brushing the lenses. “Oh. Alfred Jones is my brother. He’s in this class, you might’ve heard him earlier, I dunno if you know him or…”

Of course. Lovino should’ve recognized that stupid fucking voice. Alfred F. Jones—

( _“The ‘F’ stands for ‘Fucking’!”_ )

\--was the biggest douchebag in school. Probably. There was serious competition with Ivan Braginsky, but that was neither here nor there. The point was; Jones was an asshole in the worst way.

There was the fact that Jones played sports year round—quarterback of the football team in the fall, first runner on the track team in the winter, and first baseman on the baseball team in the spring. Jones was about as “All-American” as someone could get, and frankly, it was somewhat sickening to see. He drove a red pickup truck from 1982. He blasted country music in the front hall before class. He wore American-flag patterned shirts paired with neon socks. 

Lovino was (mostly) straight, and even _he_ could see the flaw in that outfit coordination.

Furthermore, Jones had a douchey posse. Not only did he have his sports friends—who told flat-out terrible lewd jokes and cat called women jogging with strollers—but Jones was also friends with resident creeper Ivan Braginsky and probably-running-a-drug-ring-and-hasn’t-been-caught-yet Yao Wang.

Ivan Braginsky was creepy, and tried on multiple occasions to fucking kidnap Lovino. That was the only explanation for the creepy, pasted together messages in his locker that read “be mine?” with clipped magazine letters. Braginsky also had a disturbing accent—not that Lovino hated accents because that would be hypocritical—but the combination of his overall disgusting personality and scary obsession with Karl Marx only made his thick Russian voice even more…terrifying. He was polite when he wanted to be, but could easily murder you with a single look. Plus he’d sent a dick pic to Feliciano once, so.

Yao Wang was the second part of Jones’ tight friend group, and boy was he something. He and Braginsky were pretty close, though Lovino wouldn’t be surprised if it wasn’t a friend thing so much as a sex thing. Or a drug thing. Or a sex-drugs thing. Whatever. Wang was pretty quiet, until he got into screaming matches with Braginsky and Jones in the middle of the hall about stealing some girl they all wanted to fuck. It didn’t matter, honestly, because no one paid them any attention.

The problem wasn’t when they were fighting one another. It was when they were unified against someone else that was the issue.

Jones’d had it out for Lovino and his friends ever since they were freshmen. Apparently, on the first day of orientation, Ludwig and a friend of his were trying to find the bathroom. Ludwig’s friend barely knew English, as he had apparently just moved from Austria to the States. Anyhow, the story went that they were speaking German, lost and trying to figure out where to go, when Jones heard them from down the hall.

Instead of responding like a _normal_ person, Jones’d raced towards them screaming “Nazi’s!” at the top of his lungs.

Again. _Douchebag._

So yeah, of course Ludwig punched him. What else could he’ve done?

Lovino fully backed him up on that. Even if they didn’t get along elsewise, he would back up—to the day he died—that Ludwig was practicing his full right to punch Alfred square in the face.

Well, he’d broken Jones’ jaw, and gotten himself suspended for three days right off the bat, but all the more power to him.

Jones’ nose never looked the same. And he hated Ludwig for it. It was almost like World War III with the way they went at each other; and when Feli and Ludwig started dating, Jones took jabs at that, too. Which, of course, drew Lovino in.

At the time he’d barely even been hanging around Feli, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t ridiculed for everything—his accent, his height, his brother’s apparent “gayness”, his inability to sit still for more than a few minutes.

That was when Lovino’s school record started. Fights broke out over nothing (and, when he was defending Feliciano, more than _nothing_ ), and he saw more of the principal’s office than his homeroom.

Over the years their feud had dissipated, but that didn’t stop Lovino from hating Alfred Fucking Jones to his bitter core. Jones wasn’t a good person, in Lovino’s eyes—Lovino wasn’t a stellar person either, but he never made fun of someone just because of their brother doing something that wasn’t even “wrong” in the first place.

“Um, yeah, so. We’re brothers.”

Oh. Right. Matthew.

Lovino hadn’t even known Jones’d had a brother up until now.

Oh well. Matthew was way cooler than Jones could ever be.

“Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention.” Matthew’s face fell. “Not!—Because you’re boring or something fucking stupid like that. My mind wanders, sometimes. Nonno says I have ADHD, or maybe ADD, I don’t know which, I always get them confused. Like, pick a fucking name, ammiright, but sometimes my mind wanders off into lala land, like a place that doesn’t exist but it does, you know—“

“ADHD and ADD are the same thing.”

Lovino wished that looks could kill. He really did. Because then this guy would drop dead and leave them alone.

“Who the fuck told you you were a part of this conversation?”

Carriedo didn’t even react. He just plowed on as though Lovino hadn’t spoken.

“ADD is just an outdated term for ADHD, which is now commonly used for both. ADHD is known as Attention-“

“I know what it fucking stands for you, you, tomato bastard!” Lovino all but shouted, throwing his arms up in a dramatic fashion. “Just fuck off, okay?”

Carriedo handed them their project packets, raising a single, unimpressed eyebrow. An irritatingly smug smirk was playing at the corner of his lips. Lovino wanted to punch it clean off.

“By the way, Lovino, you look so _cute_ when you get all red like that. Like a _tomate peque᷉o_. Maybe I should be calling you a ‘tomato bastard’, because you resemble one more. No?”

His damn sexy— _annoying, it’s annoying—_ Spanish accent thickened with the last few words. Lovino struggled not to fling half a million (certainly illegal) curses in his direction.

Lovino’s brief pause was all it took for Carriedo to get the message. Or maybe Lovino finally looked annoyed enough to scare him off. Either way, Carriedo moved away with a final, oddly soft smile directed in Lovino’s direction.

Lovino flopped back in his seat. He hadn’t even realized he’d been on the edge of it until just now. “Who does that guy think he is anyway?” He muttered, glancing at the packet with such disdain he was surprised it didn’t burst into flames.

“Antonio’s actually nice, you should get to know him.” Matthew suggested.

Lovino liked him, so he didn’t scream in his face. Still, he shot Matthew an unamused look for good measure.

“Ugh, we have to actually work on this, don’t we?” Lovino grumbled after scanning through the packet. “The one day I decide to come to this godforsaken class and this is what I get.”

Matthew groaned next to him in agreement. “Unfortunately, yes.”

“We should trade numbers so we can arrange a time to start on this piece of shit.”

Matthew laughed breathily next to him but said, “What about next class?”

Lovino snorted. “As if I’m gonna be here next class.”

When Lovino glanced at Matthew, he was nodding slowly with a wry look on his face.

“Fair point.”

And that was that.

* * *

 “I hate Antonio.”

Lovino flopped face-first down on his brother’s bed. His Pokémon-themed bedsheets smelled like pasta sauce and the smothering axe cologne Ludwig wore. Lovino didn’t even want to think about why his brother’s bed smelled like Ludwig’s hair, so he rolled over to face the ceiling instead.

Feliciano had a fetish for glow in the dark stars. When they were little and first moved into the house, Feli had bought twenty packages with the money their grandfather gave them to decorate their rooms. He’d then proceeded to stick them up in random formations without rhyme or reason. There was one constellation that looked vaguely like a penis, but that was the only somewhat interesting one. Maybe that’s where he got his gayness from, who knew. Staring up at that phallic-like shape every night before bed had to affect a kid somehow, right?

The stars were probably stuck up there with super glue, or something. Once the world was in ashes, and the house was crumbling to the ground, those fucking stars would remain. A relic of their childhood, and the innocence they’d lost over the years.

Damn. Lovino wasn’t expecting his attendance in English today to turn him into a poet. Maybe he should write a novel or something.

“Carriedo?”

Lovino blinked, glancing at his brother out of the corner of his eye. He’d forgotten he’d said something.

“What?”

“Carriedo? Antonio Carriedo? He’s in our grade, right? I think so. He was in my art class last year, he painted tomatoes all the time and his artwork wasn’t very good but he was so nice, ve—“

Feliciano could go on like this for hours if provoked. They were kind of similar in that way. Lovino figured it would be best to cut him off now.

“Yeah, Antonio Carriedo. That fucking bastard.”

Lovino wasn’t looking at his brother anymore, so he had no preparation for when Feliciano jumped onto the bed, tackling Lovino into the sheets.

“What the—“ Lovino shouted, the sound muffled by the soft cotton. Somehow he’d wound up on his face again. “Fuck—“

“Lovi! Don’t! Be! Mean!” Each word was punctuated with a jab at his side, which was meant to be ticklish but wound up just being annoying.

“Ugh, get off.” Lovino snapped, pushing at his brother impatiently.

Feliciano got off.

“Wish you wouldn’t do that, Feli.” Lovino muttered, crossing his arms and trying to pretend that Feliciano wasn’t beaming at him from the corner of the bed.

“Ve, you love it.” Proclaimed Feliciano with one more tickle as he sat back on his heels.

“Whatever.”

Feliciano moved to sit back in his desk chair he’d been occupying earlier. He had a contemplative look on his face.

“So, why do you hate Antonio?”

Lovino settled back against the bed, ignoring the way his brother’s stare bored into him. It was creepy, was what it was.

“He’s in my English class, right? And this tomato bastard—“

Lovino ignored Feliciano’s giggle.

“—He acted like a know-it-all today. Except for two things okay. First we’re in regular English class, none of that honors shit here, so why care right? I mean what the fuck, this isn’t Harvard! Secondly, he was just telling the bitch ass teacher what she wanted to hear. Something about symbolism or criticizing society or something. I don’t fucking know, Feli, but it was goddamn annoying! Just annoying! So I called him out and then he called me cute!”

“Cute?”

“Cute! The fucking ass eating tomato fucking bastard!”

Feliciano giggled again. Lovino ignored it.

“And how was English otherwise? Just like every other day in that class, right?” Feli said with a mischievous glint in his eye.

Lovino positively ached for a cig. Except he couldn’t smoke in the house because then Nonno would find out, and there’d be hell to pay.

Maybe he’d sneak over to Sadiq’s place later. Not that Sadiq was home, but the apartment key wasn’t hanging off Lovino’s keychain for nothing.

“Oh, fuck off.” Lovino muttered distractedly. Lovino loved him, but the problem with Feli was his brother _expected_ things of him. And though Lovino could follow through on defending his brother or occasionally pretending to _be_ Feliciano (for the really unobservant teachers) when Feliciano was too stoned to even sit up straight—Lovino was shit at actually holding himself to a higher standard for someone else. It was difficult when Feliciano expected him to actually be a good person, because Lovino wasn’t. He wanted to be, for Feli and Nonno, and even Mama and Papa—who were long gone—but he just _couldn’t._

Disappointment was the worst kind of anger, Lovino quickly found out. So he learned to hide things.

Though it was difficult to hide from Feli.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean that.” Lovino remedied quickly.

This time when Feliciano joined him on the bed, Lovino didn’t push him off.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lovino and Matthew have a rendezvous in the library, but it's interrupted. Lovino begins to realize his growing attraction for a certain person.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a terrible human being for waiting almost five months to update this. This chapter is really weak too; I had a whole big chapter planned but alas, I just couldn't do it, and I really needed to update this fic.   
> So. All (or most) of what I have planned will be in the next chapter. And I promise it wont be another five months until I update.   
> Warning for drug use in this chapter. It's mild but still mentioned quite often in one scene. Also very mild homophobic language.   
> (I also realized that I made a minor mistake in the last chapter. The line was "If you have any questions, please hesitate to ask." Not "if you have any projects". That's what you get for editing at 2 AM)

Lovino met Matthew later that week in the library.

“So.” Matthew said as he set his books down at a circular table near the fiction section, “This project.”

“It’s gonna blow.” Lovino muttered. “I didn’t even know our school had a library.”

That was untrue, of course. Lovino had spent the majority of his time freshman year here. Not that he was going to tell Matthew that.

“Well, let’s get started.”

Lovino stared down at the project rubric without comprehending it.

“What do we have to do for this again?” He asked.

Matthew groaned and pushed his head into his arms. For a second Lovino thought _Oh no, I said something wrong,_ but then Matthew looked up and whispered in a horrified tone of voice: “There’s five parts to this project, Lovino. Five.”

Oh yeah. A second glance at the paper told Lovino that there were indeed five parts of the project, each more complicated than the last.

“We have to write ‘individualized reflective essays?’” Lovino quoted, “What the fuck does that even mean?”

“My friend Vash takes the honors class, and their final project is to analyze the movie version of a book.” Matthew said, a wistful look on his face. Lovino couldn’t help but agree.

“I was right. This fucking blows.”

“Like you’re gonna do to my dick later, amiright?” A gratingly familiar voice called from behind Lovino. Several “shh”’s echoed throughout the library at the disruption.

“Sup, faggots.” Alfred F. Jones proclaimed as he threw his backpack on the ground. He settled in a vacant seat, tipping the chair back with his legs spread wide.

“Buenos tardes, mis amigos.” Another voice said and Lovino wanted for nothing more than a hole in the ground to appear, and swallow him up.

“Goddammit, no—“ Lovino muttered as Carriedo took a seat. Lovino resisted the urge to slam his head against the desk violently.

“So, Mattie bro, what’re y’all talking about over here?”

Matthew glanced for a long, pointed moment at the papers spread out in front of them. Jones just stared at his brother’s face with growing wonderment.

“Matt, do you need to get your ears checked or something?” Waving a hand in front of his brother’s face as though Matthew were blind, Jones jeered, “Hellooooo? Anyone home?”

“We’re working on the English project, dumbass.” Lovino snapped, pushing his project rubric across the table toward Jones.

Alfred cast a disinterested look at the paper before shrugging. “Oh yeah. We were gonna work on that at some point too, right Toni?”

“Hopefully sooner rather than later, Alfred.” Was the quick response, “I don’t see why we can’t start now?”

Jones rolled his eyes. “I don’t have my books with me.”

_Oh yeah,_ Lovino thought, _the books. I forgot we had to read those._

To say that Lovino hadn’t shown up in a few class periods was the understatement of the century. He had system; he showed up for the first class of each month, just to assure the teachers, the administration, and all of his peers that he was, in fact, still breathing. Otherwise, however, Lovino usually couldn’t be bothered to sit for seven hours in an uncomfortable chair with thirty other students he mostly despised. It was boring, and didn’t suit is lifegoals in the slightest.

“Well,” Carriedo said with a slight smile, spreading his arms wide to gesture to the nearby shelves, “We are in a library.”

Jones just glared. Matthew nodded in agreement, muttering “He does have a point Alfred.”

“Shaddup, Matt. What do you know, anyway? Not much, just sucking dick… amiright, Ant? Amiright?”

Lovino could feel a hot flush burning up his neck, the familiar feeling of furious _anger_ boiling beneath the surface of his skin.

“You know,” He snapped, slamming his hand on the table to get Jones’ attention, “For someone who claims to be a straight “ladies man”, you sure do talk about sucking dick a lot.”

Following the declaration, there was no noise but silence. A terrible, long silence, in which the inhabitants of Lovino’s table (and several surrounding tables as well) simply stared at him with varying levels of horror and amazement.

Then, suddenly, Antonio began to laugh. Deep, hysterical laughter that had him doubled over in his seat, beating at the table with a half-closed fist.

“D-dios mio, oh my… god.” Carriedo stuttered in between his laughter. “That was… amazing, Lovi. Ha! You’ve outdone yourself.”

Lovino felt his cheeks flush again, but for an entirely different reason. Antonio’s low chuckles had sent a sort of… _tingly_ sensation up Lovino’s spine, and the compliment made Lovino feel ten feet tall and small enough to curl up in Antonio’s palm all at once.

“Shut up, tomato bastard.” Lovino mumbled, reaching for his backpack where it sat, untouched, on the desk. “C’mon, Matthew, let’s go somewhere less annoying.”

Jones, who still hadn’t recovered from the insult, watched with a slightly gaping mouth as they left the library. Antonio’s lingering giggles and meek cries to “stay” and “roast Alfred some more, you’re so good at it Lovi” followed them out the door.

* * *

Lovino had only smoked weed once, and he vowed to keep it that way.

It wasn’t that he didn’t mind weed on principle; his brother smoked the stuff like it was his job, and _he_ never had any problems. No, Lovino didn’t like weed because freshman year, his brother had handed him a joint at a party and Lovino—already being spectacularly drunk—had gotten the spins in the worst way.

After wishing for the sweet release of death for what felt like hours, Lovino’s high finally died down, and he felt stable enough to retreat to the bathroom and vomit in peace. And as he kneeled on the cold bathroom floor, his cheek pressed against the no-doubt STD-ridden toilet seat, Lovino vowed to never, _ever_ try the stuff again.

The primary difference between Lovino and Feliciano was this; their preference of vice. Lovino’s was alcohol of any variety, and cigarettes. Feli, on the other hand, never enjoyed hard liquor and always lit up before going to school.

Lovino didn’t mind Feli’s pot obsession. Except, at times like these, Lovino would prefer his brother to be somewhat sober.

Matthew coughed from behind Lovino. Lovino couldn’t blame him.

Sitting in their basement were three teenagers; Feliciano, Ludwig, and Kiku Honda. Feli was the one holding the joint, but it was obvious that they were all stoned off their asses. Kiku was playing a racing game on their outdated X-box, and Ludwig had somehow managed to fold himself into the recliner with Feli on his lap.

“Feli.” Lovino said, marching over to where his brother was sitting. “I need to borrow the laptop.”

Feliciano blinked lazily up at him, before handing the joint to Ludwig. With a lazy hand wave to accompany him, Feli stated flatly, in Italian. “ _Okay, but delete my search history. Luddy and I were looking up BDSM porn videos for inspiration.”_

“Jesus fucking Christ, I hate you.” Lovino snapped, thoroughly disgusted. He didn’t want to think about it, he wasn’t going to think about his brother getting off to BDSM porn. Nope nope nope.

“What did he say?” Matthew asked curiously, sliding up to stand behind Lovino.

Lovino scowled and shook his head. “Trust me, you don’t want to know.”

“Fratello, the world is so… small.” Feliciano said dreamily, staring at a point behind Lovino’s left earlobe. “The universe is so big and… black.”

Then, of course, Ludwig had to ask, in an extremely serious tone of voice, “Feli, does space turn you on?”

“Okay!” Lovino shouted, throwing his arms in the air with exasperation, “Matthew! Let’s go upstairs now.”

Matthew, a small smile curling around his lips as though he was attempting to contain laughter, nodded in agreement.

They ascended the stairs, Lovino trying to ignore Feliciano’s assertion about the universe and Kiku’s distressed “noooo” over something going wrong in the game.

“I didn’t know Kiku Honda smoked.” Matthew said when they resurfaced from the pot dungeon. “My brother and I are friends with him, Alfred more than me, but he doesn’t seem like someone who smokes. At all.”

“Yeah. He didn’t used to, but then he met my brother. Apparently it helps him play video games, and that’s why he does it. I don’t know him that well. He seems like an ‘only-does-it-on-the-weekend’ kinda guy.”

Matthew shrugged, though it was clear he’d been shaken by seeing his prudish friend in such an uninhibited state. “Oh well. It’s his life I guess. We have other things to do. Like this project.”  

The duo wound up in Lovino’s room, his and Feli’s shared laptop balanced on Lovino’s knees. Matthew, after some prodding, had made himself comfortable in the beanbag chair in the corner. Lovino sat on the bed, back to the wall.

After clearing the search history (Feliciano hadn’t been lying, either, and Lovino kind of wanted to drink an entire gallon of bleach) Lovino pulled up Spark Notes and began to read.

“What’re you doing?” Matthew asked after a minute. Lovino, halfway through an analysis of Boo Radley’s character, flipped the computer so Matthew could see the screen.

Matthew squinted. He leant forward in his chair. He adjusted his glasses. Then, recognition dawned on his face, and he sat back with a resolutely disappointed look.

“Lovino.” Matthew chided. “Don’t you think you should… read the books before we do this project?”

“Fuck that.” Lovino snapped. He just didn’t want to read not one but three archaic novels by long dead ‘Great American Authors’ who likely just sat around sucking their own dicks because their works were admired for the ‘symbolism’ or whatever.

“Um…” Matthew protested—weakly, upon Lovino’s harsh rejection, but still, he protested—“It’s for our final project. I have copies of the books, if you want them…?”

Lovino stared at Matthew. Matthew, to his credit, stared back. Judging by the thin trickle of sweat working it’s way down his temple, however, it was taking him a lot of effort.

After a moment of glaring down their noses at one another, Lovino did something he’d only ever done with Feliciano and Nonno before. He caved.

“Alright.” Lovino groaned, flopping back onto the bed with his arms outstretched. “Whatever. I’ll read these stupid fucking books. But—“ He sat up abruptly, pointing a finger at Matthew’s smug face. “—Don’t expect me to like it. I’m gonna complain about it nonstop.”

Lovino wasn’t expecting Matthew’s answering smile, but it was certainly genuine. And if it caused Lovino to feel, just for a moment, that he had a friend in the world that wasn’t attached to him by familial ties, well, that was nobody’s business but his.

* * *

The weekend came. As promised, Lovino began _To Kill a Mockingbird._

It wasn’t terrible. Atticus was pretty badass, for a middle aged dad.

When his Nonno asked why he’d spent the whole weekend in his room, Lovino had panicked, shouting “I’ve been masturbating! Leave me alone!” before slamming his door shut with a bang.

No one could know about his interest in the book.

Especially not Matthew.

Or, worse, Antonio.

Lovino shuddered, and flipped the page.

* * *

Monday came, and Lovino rolled into class ten minutes late with no pass. He was seriously regretting showing up at all, but Antonio was wearing a button down shirt with a sweater vest of all things. Lovino spent the entire class coming up with witty one-liners, each of them boiling down to “What a nerd.”

Halfway through the class, Mrs. B (Lovino seriously needed to learn her full name) turned the air conditioner off, and Antonio unbuttoned the top two buttons on his shirt. Lovino watched as a precious few inches of tanned skin (seriously it was like February, who gave Antonio the right to be that golden brown) were revealed.

Lovino stared for so long that he began to zone out, just watching that attractive ( _annoying!_ ) chest incline and collapse with each breath Antonio took. It was almost hypnotizing. Lovino understood, now, the power of flirtation, of playing hard to get, of covering up—

( _He’s a know it all, annoying, tomato bastard! Get it together, Vargas_ )

\--When Lovino glanced up, Antonio was staring right at him. His eyebrows were furrowed in confusion. When their eyes met, Antonio smiled tentatively, which did wonders for his cheekbones—

Lovino looked at his hands on the desk, curled into fists subconsciously. He flexed them, feeling the blood rush back to his fingertips.

He stared at his hands until he was sure Antonio had stopped looking.

_Shit._ Lovino thought frantically. _Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: I was going to write a sexy sex dream at the end of this but I cut it out at the last second.


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a terrible person. I throw myself at those who have been waiting for this feet and cry over how terrible I am. I told myself that this was gonna get done sooner but then I got to college and realized that shit gets real when you're paying for school.  
> Anyway, I worked through my exhaustion to get this out. I hope that it isn't too disjointed. Also, I felt a little bit like a Victorian-era romance novelist with how I was describing the longing glances that Lovino and Antonio threw at one another. Jane Eyre vibes anyone? (I'm trash.)  
> PS Happy Halloween!

Mondays were a drag.

Lovino, along with every teenager (and human) on the planet, absolutely hated them. It was the end of the weekend and the beginning of the week--meaning business, school, and real life were all back in swing.

Lovino, as he ambled down the hall during fifth period, a time that would no doubt be better spent in class, pondered this fact. He wondered if it would be a better world if Monday was a part of the weekend. Would an extra day placate the masses? Or would Tuesday simply become the next Monday?

Lovino was thinking hard about this. So hard, in fact, that he almost ran straight into someone on his way around a corner.

“Fuck!” He gasped, falling back against the wall he was so startled. His heart was pounding an irregular beat in his chest. And it didn’t stop when he saw who he nearly collided with.

Antonio fucking Carriedo. In the flesh. His glasses were particularly high on his nose today, which did nothing to diminish the brightness of his eyes or the sharpness of his cheekbones. Lovino scowled. Antonio fucking Carriedo was right.

“Watch where you’re going, shit dick.” Said Lovino, moving past Antonio with rapid feet and a heavy heart.

“Where’s your hall pass, _tomate peque᷉o_?” Antonio called, which drew Lovino to a halt. Antonio’s tone was tinted with amusement, but Lovino was always DTF.

(Down to fight, that is.)

“This isn’t middle school, Carriedo! You’re not a hall monitor.” Lovino said, half over his shoulder. He found Antonio attractive, sure, but he wasn’t about to have a full-on conversation with the guy. Lovino still found him infuriating.

There was mirth in Antonio’s eyes, and in the wake of Lovino’s revelation, he found it somewhat endearing rather than annoying as he usually would.

“You’re still breaking the rules, Vargas. I’ll report you to the next teacher I come across.”

Despite the smile and the laughter, Lovino couldn’t help but be unsure as to whether or not Antonio was being serious. The kid had a track record for being a goody-two-shoes, after all.

Either way, Lovino wasn’t taking risks. He spent the rest of fifth period hiding out in the bathroom on the third floor.

* * *

On Tuesday, Lovino drove home with Matthew after school.

Matthew had caught up with him in the hall as Lovino was preparing to leave. He still hadn’t been to English, and as a result, still had yet to see Matthew during school hours. Lovino knew that the class was reading poetry at this point, and wanted absolutely nothing to do with it.

“Hey, Lovino, wait up!” Came a shout from behind him, and Lovino and Feliciano moved in sync to face the source of the noise. Matthew rushed up to meet them, panting slightly from exertion.

“Hold… on…” Matthew gasped, doubling over to clutch his knees and catch his breath. Feliciano and Lovino exchanged a _look._

 _“Weak.”_ Feliciano’s gaze seemed to say.

 _“Oh like you could do any better.”_ Lovino conveyed with the tilt of his eyebrow.

Feliciano nodded. “You’re not wrong.” He said, glancing at Matthew.

“What?” Matthew asked, confusion written across his face. He straightened himself up and looked in between the two brothers confoundedly.

“Nothing.” Lovino and Feliciano answered in unison.

“What’s up?” Lovino asked, impatient and ready to go home. He had been unable to to nap during his last period of the day because his usual nook behind the third floor staircase was occupied by an involved couple. As a result, he was forced to hang out outdoors, which was unfortunately cold and certainly no place for sleep. Despite the crummy weather, it was still refreshing to be outside the school, even if he couldn’t get some shut eye. In fact, the only reason why he’d come back into school in the first place was to get Feli--he had the car keys.

Feliciano and Lovino shared a car. It was painted a beautiful dark green color—but Lovino only knew that from seeing old polaroids. Mud was permanently caked along the bottom half of the car, from when Feliciano had driven it off the road in the middle of a slushy rainstorm. It hadn’t been washed years, and had the general appearance (and texture) of coal.

The gas mileage was horrible, the back seat was too small, and the gas cap had been replaced half a dozen times because Feliciano had driven off without it. Needless to say, it was about as shitty as a car could get.

Despite it being a complete piece of shit, though, it was theirs. Lovino was weirdly proud of it, in a way. The car had survived this long and was still going. It was like a small miracle in the shitstorm that was Lovino’s life.

“I was just wondering if you wanted to maybe come over to my house to work on the project? We can take my car.”

Oh yeah, Matthew.

“Sure. Your place it is.” Lovino agreed without thinking, adjusting his shoulder so his backpack wouldn’t slide down his arm. “I’ll see you at home Feli.”

“Okay! Let me know if you need a ride.” Feliciano called as Lovino walked, in step with Matthew, out the double doors.

* * *

Lovino watched the houses change from small family homes to McMansions as Matthew drove across town.

“I took my dad’s second car today because Alfred has detention after school.” Matthew explained. “Usually I just ride in his pickup.”

Lovino, with nothing to say, remained silent.

Matthew turned down a side street, and Lovino’s mouth nearly sprung open. What was on the previous road did not compare. Lovino’s eyes met gilded gates followed by endless driveways between rolling hills of lush green grass, despite it being the height of winter. Three and four floored houses decorated in stone rested atop hills, fountains and lawn ornaments and pruned roses displayed in front yards.

Matthew pulled into a driveway, clicking a button on the visor. The gate swung inward, and Matthew moved forward.

“Holy shit.” Lovino muttered, unable to keep his awe restrained. “Is your dad some kind of crime lord? Because _holy shit._ ”

The house towered over the driveway, all grey stone and white siding. The driveway itself wound around the front of the house to form a neat circle, and there was a chandelier hanging above the porch. As they got closer, Lovino could see the elaborate flower bed design, although he was pleased to find that all of the plants appeared dead.

“What the fuck.” He whispered, so quiet that he doubted Matthew could even hear him. He wanted to vomit. He wanted to ask Matthew for a loan.

Matthew moved the car into the garage ( _With four spots!_ ) and shut off the engine.

“You never told me that you were a fucking trust fund kid.” Lovino commented as they stepped out of the car. He was impressed for sure, but also felt betrayed. Matthew seemed too humble, too good, to be the son of some rich asshole. It felt as though he’d lied to Lovino in some way, and Lovino very much disliked being deceived.

“It’s not something that I like to advertise.” Matthew said, shrugging self consciously. The anger deflated inside Lovino as a popped balloon. He could understand that, at least. It wasn’t like he and Matthew were best friends anyway. Matthew was in no way obligated to tell Lovino everything about his life.

“Well, whatever. Just don’t, like, buy a Ferrari for your next birthday and crash it within the week or some other stupid shit that rich people do.” Joked Lovino, guilt gnawing at his insides. He had no right to judge Matthew. After all, Matthew didn’t judge Lovino.

At least, not that Lovino was aware of.

Shrugging off the thought, Lovino followed Matthew into the house. They went up a curved staircase that hugged the wall, and down what Lovino could only describe as a wing of the house until they reached a door.

“This is my room.” Matthew said, and Lovino almost made a witty comment along the lines of “no shit” but refrained. He already felt as though he was on thin ice, and didn’t want to push it.

Matthew’s room was surprisingly normal, although far larger than Lovino’s. He didn’t have a canopy around his bed or anything ridiculous. There was  a beanbag chair in one corner and a worn stuffed animal perched on the desk and a hockey poster tacked up above the bed. It was like something out of the throw away catalogues their grandfather jammed into the basket in the bathroom for “reading material”.

“Do you want something to drink?” Asked Matthew. He was standing near the door, clutching his hands nervously.

“Sure, some Coke would be great.” Lovino said, almost offhandedly,  turning back to the room. He heard Matthew leave, but he barely registered it.

Lovino’s grandfather had once said that the best way to learn about someone was to read the titles on their bookshelf. Lovino, as a snoopy fucker, beelined for Matthew’s. It was a small bookshelf by the bed, but all the books looked well-loved. Lovino spotted _Moby Dick_ , _The Crucible,_ and, somewhat surprisingly, _American Gods,_ before Lovino’s gaze stumbled over something unexpected.

Lovino, who had been on the lookout for family pictures--mostly to make fun of Alfred later--had seen none up until this point. However, resting in a wooden frame on the bookshelf, was a photograph. Lovino picked it up, looking down at the little figures smiling up at him. There were four of them--a man, a woman, and two smiling, identical boys--obviously Matthew and Alfred.

They were at an amusement park, maybe Disney World. Lovino wouldn’t know either way, he had never been. The woman and the man had their arms around one another, and Alfred and Matthew were holding hands. One of the boys held a balloon, the other, a bag of popcorn. They looked overwhelmingly happy.

Lovino set the picture down, his stomach in knots.

“Hey, here’s your Coke.” Matthew said, and Lovino hadn’t even heard him come in. He took the can, thanking Matthew with a tip of his head.

“So,” Said Lovino, flopping down on the beanbag. “Now that I know you’re rich, I expect my college tuition to be fully paid for.”

Matthew laughed, sitting at his desk chair and facing Lovino. Afternoon sunlight trickled in, slanting across Matthew’s face.

“That depends on where you’re going?” Matthew asked, half a question, half a joke.

Lovino swallowed another sip of his soda to avoid answering. The truth of the matter was, Lovino hadn’t thought about college at all. Lovino had avoided Feliciano when his brother had been applying to art colleges in the fall. At his grandfather’s prompting, Lovino had halfheartedly applied for the community college in the next town over. He had yet to hear anything back.

“I’ll figure it out.” Lovino said flippantly, and then promptly asked, “What about you?”

“I’m hoping to go back to Canada.” Matthew smiled, his eyes glazing over slightly. Lovino recognized that look--Feli got it when he thought of their time in Florence. It was blissful, but nostalgic.

“Canada? That rocks. Better than here, anyway.” Lovino flopping back in the chair to stare at the ceiling. It was completely crack-free. What a novelty. “You said ‘back’. Have you been to Canada before?”

Because Lovino wasn’t facing Matthew, he didn’t see the shift in Matthew’s features. However, it happened, almost imperceptibly. His smile dipped, nostalgia tinged bitter sweet.

“That’s actually pretty awesome.” Lovino said, and immediately cringed at the adjective. He fucking hated that word. “You’ve been before? To Canada, I mean.”

“Er, yeah.” Matthew said, slowly lowering himself to the floor so he was sat across from Lovino. The falter in his friend's voice made Lovino sit up. Their feet were almost touching, and Lovino couldn’t help but notice the stark contrast between his ratty sneakers and Matthew’s soft grey socks.

Lovino’s gaze slid up to Matthew’s face. He no longer looked happy. Because of something that Lovino had said. _Fuck,_ but Lovino couldn’t do anything right. Self loathing, true and familiar, caused him to look away from Matthew’s kicked-puppy gaze.

“My mother…” Matthew faltered for a second, his eyes drifting across the inch of carpet where their toes were almost connected. “I lived in Canada with her for several years. As a child.”

Oh. _Oh._  

 _Abort abort abort_ . He had to think of something else to talk about, anything else to talk about, than _this._

Thankfully, per deus ex machina, Lovino didn’t have to.

A knock resounded upon Matthew’s door, drawing both boys’ attention from one another to the sound. Matthew stood suddenly, rushing to open it. Lovino followed, curious and anxious to move on from the awkward situation he had just been in.

Standing in the doorframe was Alfred. Lovino wished that he’d remained in the chair.

“So this is Mattie’s room. Not as great as mine, but still pretty okay.” Said Alfred, gesturing widely. Lovino, confused, couldn’t tell to whom Alfred was speaking. Certainly not Matthew. He hadn’t even seen Lovino yet, so who--

Lovino peered around Matthew only to spot familiar dark hair and wire-framed glasses.

( _fuck_.)

“Oh! Mattie, I didn’t know that you were having Lovino over too! Maybe we can all work together.” Alfred exclaimed. It felt false, like a mockery of some kind. And not the type of mockery that Lovino appreciated either.

Antonio, bless him, stepped forward. “But Alfred,” He stated matter-of-factly, a finger held in the air, “We can’t work together.”

“Yeah, our project theses are different.” Matthew mentioned quietly, but it was largely ignored by the group--minus Lovino, who listened to every word.

“Because Lovino has yet to read the books.” Antonio finished, a smug grin spread across his face.

Shame was one of Lovino’s least favorite feelings, and he was currently awash with it. His face felt like the inside of a hot water boiler. It was a terrible Vargas family trait, after all, to blush while angry and/or embarrassed.

Unwilling to admit that he had read most of one of the novels already, and feeling ashamed for assuming that Antonio had been flirting with him the other day and might actually enjoy his wit, Lovino snapped, “Fuck you too, you Spanish bastard of a dick.”

Antonio laughed. “You’re not wrong.” And Lovino had no response to that.

“Um, Alfred. Was there any reason for you coming here, or…?” Matthew asked, and Lovino couldn’t help but feel the same. “Didn’t you have detention?”

“Oh! Yeah, I skipped that shit. Fuck that high school man.”

(At last. Something that Lovino and Alfred could agree on.)

“You skipped work to do work?” Lovino asked, mostly to goad Alfred. It didn’t seem to matter though, as the stupidly smug look on Alfred’s face didn’t falter in the slightest.

“It’s the only time this week that our friend Antonio here can do it.” Alfred clapped Antonio on the shoulder. Antonio’s brow scrunched, clearly uncomfortable with the situation. Lovino raised an amused eyebrow at Antonio. Antonio scowled back.

“Oh?” Lovino questioned, glancing in between the duo, “Is your schedule too busy with Mathlete practice and Chess Club?”

And that was when Antonio blurted, abruptly, almost unintentionally, “No, actually, I have to work.”

It took Lovino aback. It was only Tuesday. Did Antonio have to work for the rest of the week?

With not much else to say, Lovino fell silent. He ducked his head, avoiding looking at Antonio’s unyielding gaze. The entire day, it would seem, was just one unfortunate situation after another.

“Anywho,” Alfred proclaimed, throwing an arm around Antonio. Antonio, when Alfred turned, made a disgusted face at Lovino and Matthew. Lovino, despite his anger, couldn’t agree more.

“We’re gonna go do some work. Talk to you losers later!” And they were gone, off down the hall and into another room. Lovino released a breath of air and waited for Matthew to close the door before moving to sit back down again.

“I think those guys had the right idea.” Matthew said, reaching for his backpack.

Lovino sighed in agreement, and pulled out a pen.

* * *

The horizon was a stretched orange color when Lovino left. Lazy afternoon clouds were flooded by the evening sun—their bright red hue a splash against the faded purple sky. He avoided staring at the sun’s dying rays for too long—focusing on the cracked sidewalk in front of him instead. His collar was turned up against the bitter cold, his hands jammed in his pockets because he could never remember to wear gloves. Dead leaves crunched beneath his feet. The roads were empty. The world had come to a standstill.

Lovino shivered; the wind was going straight through his coat, and it was damn unpleasant.

“Ninety nine bottles of beer on the wall…” Lovino muttered, trying to distract himself from the harsh weather, kicking at a small rock. It bounced down the pavement before hitting a crack and wedging itself in between a cluster of weeds.

“Take one down, pass it around…” Lovino sung, slightly louder than before.

“…Nintey eight bottles of beer on the wall.” A voice called. Lovino’s head snapped up, surprised when he recognized his surroundings. The apartment complex was where—

_Oh no._

Lovino squinted against the westward sun, its fading light casting a shadow on the backside of the building where the shout had come from. Sure enough, leering down from his second-floor balcony was Sadiq Adnan.

“Vargas.” Sadiq greeted, raising his half-finished bottle of beer in a mock-salute. Lovino raised his middle finger in response.

“Classy, Vargas. Real classy.” Sadiq shouted after him, when Lovino didn’t stop walking. He wondered idly just how drunk Sadiq really was.

“Really? Not nearly as classy as being smashed at five in the afternoon, Adnan.” Lovino shouted back, not bothering to turn his head.

“Hey, you know how the saying goes—it’s five o’clock somewhere!”

“You’re a no good drunk, Sadiq!” Lovino snapped, and rounded a corner, leaving Sadiq behind.

* * *

The only problem, Lovino mused the following afternoon, was that he actually _shared_ the car with his brother. Which wound up being a problem when they both had somewhere to be. It was practically the only thing they ever fought about, and Lovino hated every second of it.

“C’mon, Feli, it’s for school.” Lovino definitely did _not_ whine as he reached for the keys Feliciano was holding.

“Lovi, don’t be silly—you can have the car next weekend!”

“That’s not the point, Feli, I need the car now! Don’t make me get Nonno.”

Feliciano nodded, his shoulders slumping dejectedly. The keys dangled weakly from his fingers. Lovino had to glance away from his brother’s heartbroken expression. He’d get the car next weekend anyway, Lovino reasoned with himself as he reached for the keys, he and Ludwig could soil the backseat then.

Lovino touched the cool metal of the keychain, and then he wasn’t, because Feliciano darted across the room and out the door in two seconds flat. Lovino was left gaping, never mind chasing after his brother for the keys.

“That’s a cruel fucking trick, _fratello._ ” Lovino snapped, vaulting off the couch and stalking into the garage.

Feliciano was already behind the wheel, the rich sound of the Italian opera music blasting from the speakers.

“You can have the car next weekend.” Feliciano said with a smile. “Luddy and I have plans. But I can drive you to Matthew’s?”

Lovino grumbled the whole way, still contemplating when his brother had gotten so good at lying to him.

* * *

When Lovino’s phone buzzed in the middle of his smoke session the following week, he wasn’t surprised that it was a text from Sadiq that read “bitch did u drink my vodka bc fuk u asshole”.

Lovino had, in fact, _not_ been the one to drink all of Sadiq’s alcohol, although he wistfully imagined doing so on a daily basis. In fact, Lovino had not been to Sadiq’s place in a month, and despite being a great place to go for free booze, Lovino didn’t really want to visit on a daily basis.

“No, fuck you” Lovino eloquently replied before shoving his phone deep into his back pocket. He took another drag of his cigarette.

“Mind if I join you?” A disembodied voice asked. Lovino turned his head slowly, biting back the urge to say something sarcastic regarding his disdain for company bubbling in his throat.

“Adnan.” Lovino hissed. Sadiq--in the flesh, up close and personal-- lounged against the brick grocery store wall, bundled in a large jacket and fingerless gloves. His face was Barbie-playhouse pink, his cheeks exposed to the biting wind. The bridge of his nose looked different than Lovino remembered it, and he supposed that Sadiq had managed to get it broken for the uptenth time. In between his calloused fingers dangled an unlit cig.

Lovino stared at them for a long moment, and remembered what it was like to have them caress his skin.

“What you think you’re doing outside my grocery store? Months of silence and then I see you twice out of nowhere? I am starting to think that you want to rekindle things, Vargas.”

Lovino’s head snapped up, and he glared down his own perfectly straight nose at Sadiq’s comment. “Accusing me of lurking and stealing all your liq? Fuck off, Adnan.” Lovino retorted, ignoring the last statement with fervor. He had completely forgotten that Sadiq worked here now.

The result from Sadiq was typical; he took one look at Lovino’s death glare and burst into laughter. Well, “laughter” was one word for it. “Sinister chuckles” would perhaps be more accurate. Apparently his inability to take Lovino seriously had not changed in the months since they’d last been in one another’s extended company.

After his low laugh trickled off, Sadiq said, with an awful, mirthful smile on his lips, “That don’t answer my question, does it?”

Lovino waved his cigarette in front of Sadiq’s face, rather rudely but still. It got the point across. “What do you think I’m doing, asshole?”

“I missed that, your sharp tongue.” Sadiq purred, without blinking at the cigarette inches away from his face.

Sadiq leaned in then, without warning, brushing the paper of the cig with his cheek before bypassing it altogether. He was in Lovino’s personal space now, hands dropping to circle around Lovino’s waist, fingertips surprisingly warm through Lovino’s thin hoodie. Lovino’s breath hitched as those treacherous fingers pulled up his hoodie, along with his t-shirt, just brushing the soft skin on his stomach. Lovino couldn’t decide where to focus his gaze--Sadiq’s dark eyes were pulling and pushing him like the tide. He settled on the wall just behind Sadiq’s left ear, as those damned fingers continued their gentle massage on his body.

Then, Sadiq was moving away. The hoodie fell clumsily back down, covering Lovino’s exposed stomach. Lovino felt bereft, of air and emotion. He blinked, rapidly, and crossed his arms angrily across his chest--as though that would somehow fill the emptiness that was building beneath his breastbone.

Sadiq’s smirk was back, and in front of him he dangled Lovino’s electric-blue lighter, which had previously been tucked into Lovino’s pants pocket. The lighter sparked as Sadiq held it to his lips, and the cherry of the cigarette burned bright red on the inhale.

A sudden wave of hot fury rolled over Lovino, and he clenched his fists and bit his tongue, _hard,_ to prevent himself from punching Sadiq square in the jaw. Instead, he turned, and stormed away from Sadiq as gracefully as possible.

“Oh come on! It was a joke! Pussy.” Sadiq called, the last word uplifted to sound like a question. Perhaps Sadiq regretted what he had said, but it wouldn’t be the first time Sadiq hurt Lovino’s feelings and didn’t apologize for it. It probably wouldn’t be the last, either.

Lovino reached for his car keys, forgetting entirely why he had come to the grocery store in the first place. _What a stupid mistake,_ he thought bitterly, his hands shaking as he twisted the key in the ignition. Blinking rapidly in time with his pounding heart, Lovino put the car into reverse and drove away.

* * *

“Ah, Romano, just in time. Did you get the bread and other groceries?” His Nonno all but assaulted when Lovino stepped through the front door.

Lovino took a minute to stomp the ice and mud from his shoes, ignoring his grandfather’s question and remembering with a terrible realization that he had, in fact, gone to the grocery store to get fucking groceries.

Lovino glanced up to meet his Nonno’s expectant gaze, which was quickly transforming into confusion at the evident lack of grocery bags in Lovino’s hands. Lovino gulped.

Lovino and Feliciano’s grandfather was a reasonable man. Beyond that, he was compassionate, generous, and boisterous, if not a bit of a lush. He did not look to be the ripe age of sixty five, and was more often than not asked if he was Lovino’s father rather than grandfather. Lovino suspected that his youthful appearance had to do with subtle touch-ups, mostly hair dye, but this theory had never been proven so Lovino could only hope that he looked half as good as his Nonno when he got to be that age.

Despite being a kind man, Lovino’s grandfather was also stern. Lovino knew that if his Nonno asked him to do something, and it was not done, there would be hell to pay. Which was precisely why Lovino was not looking forward to explaining why he did not have the groceries his grandfather had requested.

For a moment, he paused, staring at his grandfather with what he hoped was not a confused look. The cogs in his brain were turning. For although Lovino was an experienced liar, it was difficult to do so underneath the stare of someone who had known him his entire life.

“I…” Lovino made a decision. “Groceries? What groceries?”

His Nonno’s eyebrows shot up in disbelief. Lovino could feel a lecture coming on.

“Oh!” Lovino snapped his fingers, having a revelation of sorts. “Isn’t that what you told Feli to pick up at the store? You gave him the grocery list, right?” “The list” being the slip of paper that was currently crumpled up in Lovino’s back pocket.

It was terrible, throwing Feliciano under the bus, but Lovino was not in the mood to be verbally accosted by his grandfather right now, not after the unsettling experience with Sadiq that had left him so shaken.

“Feliciano.” His Nonno’s arms crossed. “I thought that I told you to go to the store, Romano.”

“No, no, it was Feli. I’d remember if it was me, Nonno, because I gave Feli permission to use the car today.”

His grandfather was silent.

“That is, I would’ve needed the car to go to the store but I don’t have the car so Feli must’ve been the one you asked.” It felt more like a question than a statement of fact. Lovino’s grandfather raised an unimpressed eyebrow.

Lovino sent his first prayer in a while to God, hoping against all hope that this wouldn’t lead to his murder.

“I just sent him to the Beilschmidt’s, and this is the thanks I receive? That boy is more airheaded than a balloon.” Lovino’s grandfather exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air with exasperation. “Dinner is in an hour, and no pasta dish is complete without fresh baked bread! The boy knows this, and yet he cannot bring me a single roll! When he gets home…”

Lovino’s grandfather also had the tendency to rant without purpose nor stopping, a habit which Lovino and Feliciano had both inherited. Thus, Lovino knew that he had to interrupt his grandfather before things got out of hand.

“Nonno, should I go get bread for you? The Beilschmidts don’t live far, I can get the car there.”

His grandfather nodded, smiling. “Would you, Romano? And pick up Feliciano on the way.”

Lovino waited until his grandfather left the foyer before he shoved his feet back into his shoes and stumbled out into the winter air. He slipped back into the car and drove the two blocks to the Beilschmidt household.

The Beilschmidt townhouse was nearly identical to the Vargas’. The shutters were grey, not blue, but that was about the only variance. Lovino all but hugged the metal handrail as he ascended the steps, fearing for his life as his feet slipped along the icy concrete. Leftover tinsel from Christmas dangled weakly from the guardrail, tacky from months of rain, sleet, and snow.

He rang the doorbell and knocked three times, just to be safe.

Gilbert, Ludwig’s older brother and perhaps Lovino’s least favorite Beilschmidt, answered the door.

Lovino could never pinpoint why he disliked Gilbert as much as he did, he only knew that the man was despicable in every way humanly possible. He drank too much, smoked too much, and cursed too much. Gilbert enjoyed shouting (loudly) in both German and English, listening to death metal music (loudly) in both German and English, and complaining about not having a job (loudly) in both German and English. Because his parents had fucked off at an early age, Gilbert had thus decided that the world was turned against him, and would often sarcastically and cynically remark on the topic. He was quite the opposite of Ludwig--and Lovino was baffled that they shared even one single gene.

It would perhaps make more sense that Lovino and Gilbert should be related than Ludwig and Gilbert, seeing as Lovino had far much more in common with him. In fact, had Lovino paused to consider why he hated Gilbert so much, he might have come to the conclusion that they were rather similar in a lot of ways, and that was why they never quite got along.

However, Lovino had never put much thought into it, and as a result, was left hating Gilbert for the same variety of reasons that Lovino hated himself.

Gilbert, on this particular afternoon, was wearing a rumpled t-shirt and jeans. Lovino, despite having donned a similar outfit that morning, judged Gilbert harshly for his fashion choices.

“Well well well, if it isn’t Lovino Romano Vargas! Are you here for Feliciano? ‘Cause he and Ludwig are upstairs… ya’ know…” Gilbert trailed off, waggling his eyebrows and gesturing crudely with his hands. Lovino scowled.

“Fuck you.” He muttered, pushing through the doorway and past Gilbert. He shed his hoodie and boots immediately; he would hate to get mud or snow on Otto’s hardwood floors.

“Gladly! Time and place, Lovi!” Gilbert said, slamming the door shut with an unnecessary bang.

“Where’s your grandfather?” Lovino asked without looking directly at Gilbert. Otto was the only Beilschmidt that Lovino could spend extended periods of time around without wanting to put his fist through a wall.

“Asleep.”

Lovino paused, staring over his shoulder at Gilbert, who was now slouched against the wall by the stairs. The careless smile was still plastered across his face, but the corners of his eyes were tight and there was tension in his raised shoulders.

Lovino bit at his lips, struggling for something to say. Otto wasn’t doing well, Lovino knew from speaking to Feliciano and his Nonno--both of whom saw the Beilschmidt patriarch on a regular basis. Otto was just a few years older than Nonno, but a lifetime of blue-collar work had taken its toll. It couldn’t be easy for Gilbert and Ludwig to watch their grandfather’s condition deteriorate, and Lovino dreaded the day that he had to do the same for his Nonno.

“Should I get Feli?” Lovino asked at last, at a loss for what to say, gesturing with his thumb toward the stairs.

Gilbert shrugged. “If you’re fine walking into whatever it is that they’re doing right now. ‘Cause they’re definitely boning. I’m having some friends over in a minute but if you want to wait for Feli until they arrive you can.”

Lovino followed Gilbert into the family room, which was surprisingly clean. The last time he’d been here, the word “pigsty” would have been a compliment. There had been beer cans everywhere, empty plates crusted with food, and suspicious stains on the furniture. Since then, the cans had been recycled, the plates had been washed and put away, and the seat cushions had been flipped over to a cleaner side. The room actually looked habitable.

“Welcome to my awesome man cave.” Gilbert proclaimed, stepping into the room with his arms out wide. Lovino had no response but to roll his eyes and plop down in an armchair.

Even though it was technically Gilbert’s house, Lovino was really hoping that he would leave Lovino alone. However, Lovino wasn’t known for having the best of luck, so instead of wandering off to do something simply Gilbert (like watching sad German daytime TV or listening to death metal or jerking off to the Prussian flag or something), Gilbert sat down on the couch. He then turned to face Lovino, who was busy reaching for his phone. Before he could get to it though, Gilbert started talking.

“So Lovino, Lovi, my unawesome _bruder_ ’s awesome boyfriend’s unawesome brother. How’s school going?”

Lovino _really_ didn’t want to answer, but he knew that Gilbert would throw a fit if he was ignored outright. And Lovino was not emotionally or physically prepared to deal with a Gilbert-sized tantrum today.

“Fine.” Lovino bit out, his hands clenching and unclenching where they rested on his knees.

Gilbert was about to respond, most likely to push further about school, but at that moment the doorbell rang.

Gilbert jumped up, forgetting about Lovino entirely. Lovino exhaled, settling back and feeling both relieved and exhausted. That was how every interaction with Gilbert left Lovino--he was just too high energy to deal with for more than five minutes.

Waiting for Gilbert to come back ( _Or maybe not._ Lovino begged whatever higher power was paying attention to his thoughts) Lovino shot a quick text to Feli begging him to hurry the fuck up. Lovino was just sliding his phone back into his pocket when he heard a familiar voice from the end of the hall.

 _Oh fuck._ Thought Lovino, dread trickling through him like ice in his veins.

“Thank you for letting me crash here, Gilbert, you are a lifesaver.”

Lovino peeked his head around the corner, confirming what he already knew to be true. Standing in the kitchen was Antonio, with a duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He was angled away from Lovino, facing Gilbert. Lovino watched as Antonio’s hands played with the fraying edges of his worn hoodie. His fingers were long, elegant. So unlike Sadiq’s rough and calloused ones. If Lovino were a betting man, he would say that Antonio’s hands were soft and gentle. Lovino watched those same hands dip into Antonio’s back pockets, a casual gesture, the skin stretching across bones and veins, and how could someone’s _hands_ be attractive, what the _fuck--_

Lovino looked up for a moment, only to meet Gilbert’s knowing gaze over Antonio’s shoulder.

\--What the _fuck._ Lovino whipped his head back around. What if Gilbert said something to at Antonio? What if he just fucking spit it out, like Gilbert tended to do, and the cat was out of the bag? Lovino would be screwed seven ways to Sunday.

Lovino liked making Antonio think that he hated him. For Antonio to know that Lovino had a, lord help him, _crush_ on Antonio? That would just be the cannon fodder that would destroy Lovino’s ship.

Another voice joined in the mix. It was distinctly male, and distinctly French.

“Sorry I took so long, I had to park up the street. So many cars in front of your house, plus the one in your driveway! I had to walk for nearly ten kilometers to get here! I might faint from the effort.”

“Stop being dramatic, Francis.” Gilbert quipped, though his voice was light in tone. “My neighbors are having a going away party. He got promoted, they can afford a bigger house, blah blah blah. All that I care about is that the place will still be empty by next weekend, which is going to be awesome by the way. No neighbors, all you can drink, and new subwoofers. I am stoked!”

Lovino, despite being mid-panic, couldn’t help but roll his eyes. Gilbert was ridiculous.

“It sounds fun, Gilbert. I’m assuming that I’m invited?”

There was a pause, and Lovino didn’t want to look around the corner for fear of getting caught, but he felt as though he was missing out on an important moment. Then Gilbert said, in perhaps the softest voice Lovino had ever heard him use, “Of course, Tonio. You’re always invited.”

“Thanks, Gilbert.”

There was another slight pause, and then the French guy ( _Francis?_ ) said something about work and there were a flurry of goodbyes. Lovino, in the interim, shifted between turning his phone on to check for messages from Feli (there were none) and staring intently at the floor.

Finally, he heard footsteps headed toward where he was sitting. Lovino stood quickly, immediately on the defense. He absolutely did not want to speak to Antonio right now.

And yet: “Lovino! I didn’t know that you were going to be here.”

Antonio sounded too damn happy about the fact that Lovino was breathing the same air as him. Despite his windswept appearance, with tufts of his dark hair standing up and red cheeks, Antonio looked good. Lovino took him in, head to toe, before glancing away. He felt as though if he stared for too long, he’d go blind. Antonio was a little like the sun in that way.

“Yeah well whatever,” Lovino said, throwing in a “tomato fucker” at the end absentmindedly, like a footnote.

Antonio, unlike nearly everyone else Lovino had ever encountered, did not shrink away from the insult. Instead, he seemed to glow brighter, his lips curving into an infuriating smile.

“Aw, Lovi! You finally have a nickname for me!”

Antonio’s tone was mocking, harsh to Lovino’s ear. Although he knew Antonio meant the comment in jest, Lovino was immediately on the defensive.

“Fuck off.” He bit out, sitting back down and crossing his arms. He resolutely ignored Antonio’s laughter.

“Did I make you mad, Lovi?”

In his peripheral, Lovino watched Antonio flop onto the couch. The duffle fell from his hand and slid onto the floor. Antonio made no move to collect it. He had the appearance of someone who was familiar with their surroundings, as one might behave in their own home.

Lovino eyed the dirty shoes Antonio wore, with laces so frayed and knotted that they were not tieable, and wondered where else Antonio was comfortable.

“Sucks that you got Alfred as a partner for that stupid project.” Lovino commented, without looking directly at Antonio. “You might be an ass but you don’t deserve _that_ much of a mess to do your stupid project with.”

There was a moment of silence that seemed more weighted than it needed to be. Then, in an annoyingly light-hearted voice, Antonio stated, “I am surprised that you are doing the project at all, Lovino.”

That made Lovino straighten up, whipping his head around to glare at Antonio so quickly that it should’ve given him whiplash. Fury, white-hot as a pot bubbling over, shot through him. Lovinio had a lot of bad habits, but betraying his friends was not one of them. Matthew was a good person, and if Antonio thought that Lovino was going to leave him out to dry, then he was sorely mistaken. Lovino would stick with Matthew until the end, and it was entirely unfair for Antonio to make assumptions about Lovino as a person.

“Well, I’m surprised that you’re not in honors English, you fucking nerd.” Lovino shot back, without thinking.

There was that silence again; terrible and all encompassing. Antonio’s carefree expression was gone, replaced by something that Lovino could not name. Bile built in the back of Lovino’s throat. He swallowed it, jiggling his leg and trying not to break eye contact with Antonio. The two faced off in a silent battle. Lovino wondered what he had said that made everything go so terribly wrong.

When he spoke at last, Antonio was sombre. “People aren’t stereotypes, Lovino.” Said he, his eyes alight with a new kind of passion that Lovino had not seen before. It made his rage resurge in a new form. Hot and cold all over, and a bit weak in the knees.

“English isn’t my first language. I thought that you might get that. Just because I am smart does not mean that I understand everything.”

Lovino nodded, struck dumb. For once, he had nothing to say. He wanted to sink into the floor and never return. He wanted to kiss Antonio until neither of them could breathe.

A moment passed. Antonio settled back against the couch, an angry twitch forming in his jaw. He refused to look at Lovino.

Lovino watched the muscle jump in Antonio’s cheek. Lovino really shouldn’t have thought that it was as hot as he did.

“Look, Antonio, I’m fucking sorry okay? Is that what you want to hear? I’m basically a walking talking asshole. You shouldn’t expect a lot from me.” Lovio half-shouted.

Lovino waited for a moment before glancing up at Antonio from beneath his eyelashes. His face was unreadable, although the tension was gone from around his eyes. There was kindness there, but the smile was absent still. Lovino wanted, suddenly and desperately, to make it reappear.

Before Lovino could speak again, perhaps to apologize more or perhaps to make things worse, he was enveloped in a side hug. Without Lovino realizing it, Feliciano had ran into the room.

“Fratello!” He yelled, right in Lovino’s ear. Lovino shrank away from the sudden noise, shaking his brother’s arms off of him in the process.

“What do you want, Feli.” Lovino snapped, standing hastily. Heat warmed his cheeks, and Lovino couldn’t bring himself to so much as think about looking at Antonio.

Feliciano glowed. He looked blissed out, his eyes glazed over and his skin still glistening slightly from residual sweat. Lovino shuddered and reached for his phone.

There was a text from Sadiq. _I’m sorry,_ it read. Lovino deleted the notification and slipped his phone back into his pocket.

“Why’re you here?” Feli asked, although Lovino realized too late that it was not intended for him.

“Nonno wants us to go to the store…” Lovino trailed off, watching his brother approach Antonio like an old friend.

Antonio grinned, responding rapidly, “Feli! I haven’t seen you in so long! How’ve you been?”

“Antonio!” His brother exclaimed, throwing his arms around Antonio. Antonio accepted the embrace willingly, and Lovino wished, for a moment, that he and his brother could switch places. Not because he wanted to be surrounded by Antonio’s unusually buff arms, but because he wanted to be on good terms with him.

The realization struck Lovino blind. He was unsure as to where it had come from. The two had barely been on good terms until that had gone down the toilet five minutes ago.

Then, Lovino and Antonio’s eyes met across Feliciano’s shoulder. The contact sent a zing down Lovino’s spine. His knees felt weak again. He needed to sit down. Preferably away from Antonio.

“Did you ever apply to art school? You talked about it last year-”

“Feli, we need to leave.” Lovino commanded, breaking their shared gaze so suddenly it was akin to severing a limb from his torso.

“But Lovi--”

“No.” Lovino snapped. The feeling in his knees had intensified. He wondered, briefly, if he could get surgery to strengthen his kneecaps. Probably. That would definitely help his predicament.

“But fratello…”

“Nonno needs bread for dinner.” Lovino insisted. He couldn’t look back at Antonio. If he did, he’d do something truly stupid. Like punch him. Or kiss him.

Lovino strode past a confused Gilbert, who was sitting at the kitchen table. Feliciano followed behind, mumbling apologies. Lovino couldn’t have cared less.

“Lovino--” Antonio called, and Lovino couldn’t handle it anymore.

“Fuck off, Antonio! I retract what I said earlier. You and Alfred deserve one another!”

It was a stupid comment, and more than that, completely unwarranted. Lovino was in the bad habit of lashing out due to purely self anger and hatred, after all. But the insult worked, and Antonio stopped following them, struck dumb by Lovino’s harsh tongue.

Shame creeping up his neck like ivy, Lovino muttered, “C’mon Feli.”

Once they got into the car, Lovino’s shoes and jacket securely on from where he’d left them at the front door, Feliciano turned to his brother and said, “That was unnecessarily rude of you, Romano.”

It was a name only used by their Nonno, and the Priest. Lovino knew, in that moment, that his brother meant business.

And yet. Too emotionally exhausted to handle his brother’s anger, Lovino started the car. He’d figure out a way to apologize to his brother later.

“Nonno needs bread for dinner.” He repeated. They spent the car ride to the store in silence.

* * *

Lovino’s hand was down his pants the second he got home. He couldn’t stop thinking about Antonio: his fucking eyes, and his fucking jawline, and most of all his fucking mouth. Lovino imagined it, in his dark bedroom; Antonio’s mouth around his cock, tongue swirling around the head before slipping all the way down to the base. _Shit, Antonio would be great at deepthroating_ , Lovino thought, and came all over his hand.

Dumbstruck, Lovino stared at the mess he’d made. He was so _fucking_ pathetic, and it was all because he’d decided to go to _fucking_ English class.

Lovino wiped his hand on a discarded t-shirt and tossed it in his laundry basket. _Fuck that shit._

 _Fucking Spaniards,_ he thought, and went downstairs to wash his hands for dinner.

* * *

Lovino met Sadiq in his freshman year math class. Lovino was there because he was a year ahead in the subject—Sadiq, because he was a year behind. It was apparent by the D’s and F’s Sadiq got on his tests that he would be repeating the class if he didn’t make some sort of change.

Lovino wasn’t going to do anything to help Sadiq, either. At least, not initially. They weren’t even friends—seat partners and casual acquaintances at best. The longest conversation they’d had up until Lovino’s revelation on the status of Sadiq’s grade was on how maddeningly boring the teacher was. And even that conversation was relatively short. So no, Lovino was not planning to help Sadiq in any way shape or form.

But Lovino felt guilty. Which was ridiculous, because looking back, Lovino had no reason to be. But Sadiq kept getting poor grades on his quizzes and tests, and Lovino kept getting good grades on those same assessments. He understood the material, and he had free time after school.

He offered to tutor Sadiq. Nothing major, just once or twice a week after class.

It started off simple enough. The two of them went to the library and Lovino taught Sadiq how to calculate logarithms and find the midpoint on a graph. They still complained about their teacher and Sadiq still appeared disinterested, but the two slowly became tentative friends because of it.

Until Sadiq began to show signs of improving.

On the next test the class took, Sadiq got a C. Now, because the afterschool sessions were actually yielding results, Sadiq insisted that he pay Lovino somehow for his services rendered.

“I’m broke, Vargas.” Sadiq had said one day, as they sat around the circular table behind the fiction section, “But I’m gonna pay you back somehow.”

Two days later, Sadiq said that he’d found a solution.

“Sex.” Sadiq leered, from across the same table. They weren’t studying, just fucking around on their phones and pretending to be productive.

“What?” Lovino asked, glancing up from a half-finished text to Feli.

“That’s how I’ll pay you back for all this tutoring.”

Lovino, an awkward virgin who honestly hadn’t been expecting to get laid in high school at all, couldn’t refuse. That afternoon was the first of many in which Lovino received an after-class blowjob in the back of Sadiq’s van.

They proceeded from there. Sadiq understood the material, Lovino got a quickie in a bathroom stall. It was a win-win solution, especially for Lovino—who admired Sadiq’s brash nature more and more with each passing encounter.

Pretty soon, though, it wasn’t _just_ a quickie in a bathroom stall. Sadiq took him back to his place, or to parties, or—on one occasion—to the park. To Lovino, it felt like dating. He’d even met some of Sadiq’s friends, although there weren’t many to speak of.

“Friends are nice,” Sadiq had mentioned one night as he lie on the couch, Lovino sprawled next to him with Sadiq’s lazy hand running through his hair, “But connections are better.”

In response, Lovino had taken another sip of the beer Sadiq’s _connections_ had no doubt provided for him. They were drunk, and in a haze Lovino wondered why Sadiq even had his own place to begin with, as a high school junior and all. He didn’t have much time to reflect on it, however, as Sadiq promptly pushed him up over the arm of the couch and fucked him bare.

When they were slightly more sober, hours later, Lovino stared up at Sadiq—and felt an overwhelming rush of _something_ he couldn’t name. Lovino wanted to bury his head in the crease between Sadiq’s neck and shoulder blade. Lovino also wanted Sadiq to fuck him again.

But the thing Lovino wanted most of all from Sadiq was to hold his hand and strut into math class the next day and sneer at everyone who dared to give them side-eyed looks.

Lovino felt, suddenly, very, very helpless.

Lovino looked at Sadiq, and whispered, quite foolishly, “I love you.”

Sadiq met his eyes, a curious brow raised to Lovino’s statement. With each passing second, Lovino’s stomach tightened. He wouldn’t say it back, Lovino realized, as Sadiq continued to stare down with something akin to amusement in the upward tip of his mouth.

Lovino expected backlash. He expected a biting remark or a sarcastic quip or even a slap to the face. It wouldn’t be the first time Sadiq had done so.

Instead, when Sadiq opened his mouth, laughter spilled forth. It wasn’t beautiful—nothing about Sadiq was beautiful really—but there was a certain pleasantness to the low chuckle nonetheless. Lovino would have been laughing along with him out of comradery had the situation been any different.

Instead, shame spread across his cheeks and through his blood like some sort of disease. Never before had he wanted to sink into the earth and simply stay there, rotting like a corpse. Not only was it a sting to his emotions that the man that he loved didn’t feel the same, but a sting to his pride as well.

Lovino had stormed out of the apartment. It would be two years before he went back, or even saw Sadiq again. Lovino skipped every single math period until the first day of summer vacation that year, and the habit stuck.

“He’s a bad influence on you.” Feliciano had commented once, after he’d caught onto the relationship between his brother and Sadiq. And Feliciano had been right, but not in the way he thought. Sadiq was not like a lion--attacking it’s prey at will--but rather like a mosquito--sucking the life force from it’s victims until they ran dry, with nothing left to show for themselves but skin and bones and a shriveled, blackened heart.

Now, Lovino pressed a hand over his own heart. The rhythmic _thump thump thump_ reminded him, briefly, that he was still here. That he was still alive.


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Carriedo.” He said, slowly, looking over his shoulder to see Antonio standing a few feet back. Sounds from the party wafted up through the floorboards, a loud pop song blasting in a language Lovino didn’t quite recognize. Someone was having extremely noisy sex in the guest bedroom. A couple, or maybe two friends, were fighting on the stairs. And yet, Antonio’s voice was the only thing Lovino could focus on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized that I didn't do the summary for the last chapter. Oops.  
> I really need to learn how to format texts in my stories.  
> Also, some pretty warnings for discussion of serious drug use, homophobic language, slut shaming, and general bad decisions by characters. Know your limits kids.

Lovino was born in Rome. He had been born first, naturally, although his brother was a close second. Lovino emerged into the world kicking and screaming—a prediction, it would seem, for what was to come.

By the time he was five, Lovino had visited but one other city in Italy that he remembered—Milan, to visit his father’s parents. Lovino’s paternal grandparents were stiff, traditionalist people. Lovino loved them despite their defaults, though both he and Feliciano had a certain sort of dread at visiting their apartment in the city—to which they’d retired after Lovino’s father had moved out.

Milan itself was beautiful, a bustling metropolis with towering skyscrapers intermingled with architecture from centuries past. In some areas downtown, the sky was barely more than a tight square—and it made Lovino claustrophobic. Although he loved individual parts of the city, Milan ultimately made Lovino feel trapped. Both with the careful criticizing from his grandparents—their home and their personalities stuffy beyond belief—and beneath the fractured pieces of cerulean sky. And even as a young child, Lovino understood that he wanted to be free.

But Rome. _Rome._ To reinstate an old cliche: Lovino knew the city like the back of his hand. Lovino had always felt a certain connection to his city of birth—though his mother had speculated that it was deeper than simply birthright, for Feliciano had never been tied to Rome as Lovino was.

Lovino awoke each morning to tottle clumsily along the same street that had been laid by slaves thousands of years ago, walked by millions over centuries upon centuries—a street that had seen princes and emperors and dictators and Lovino. Unable to truly comprehend the weight of his footsteps then, Lovino would look back and yearn for that bond to the earth as he had never known anywhere else.

Lovino could see the Vatican when he walked those streets. If he stood upon an incline, he could catch a glimpse of the Colosseum—always surrounded by tourists yet still breathtakingly beautiful against the sands of time. He and Feliciano could play with their parents and grandparents in the great field where the great Circus Maximus had once been constructed, where horses had trampled and thousands had cheered.

Even at five, Lovino knew pieces of his country’s ancient history. Lovino was, to say the least, obsessed with it. He poured over history books (well, they were history books to Lovino. They came with more illustrations than printed word, but Lovino consumed their offered knowledge all the same). He pestered his Nonno with questions, because Nonno was the oldest person that Lovino knew, and surely he _remembered_ Julius Caesar? When his father had asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up, Lovino answered “A Gladiator!” with such vigor that his father could not protest, even as he laughed.

Rome allowed Lovino to brush that sky as he’d always wanted to. Rome allowed Lovino to be _free._

So when, at the tender age of seven, Lovino had been forced to pack up his history books and move to Florence, he was furious. With his parents, his grandparents even, for tearing him from his beloved city. Rome was, as far as Lovino was concerned, the center of the universe.

As it would turn out, Florence was equally as bounteous in history and culture. Lovino did not connect to the narrow streets and weekend markets as Feli did, but he still enjoyed it. Feliciano developed a certain love for art, and spent his chore money and his free time on galleries and gatherings. Lovino occasionally tagged along with his brother, but mostly he just enjoyed seeing his family happy.

Still, the dome in the sky was not his looming _Vaticano,_ but Lovino could pretend.

It was in Florence that Lovino became good at pretending.

* * *

Alfred F. Jones was eating a sandwich.

“Eating” being the key term. Alfred F. Jones was _attacking_ a sandwich. Alfred F. Jones was _murdering_ a sandwich. Alfred F. Jones was _wrecking_ a sandwich.

Lovino watched, judgmentally, from his seat in the cafeteria, as Alfred bit into an overstuffed, sauce-dripping… well, it _resembled_ a sandwich, anyhow. Alfred’s eyes closed slightly on the impact, the bite so aggressive that it pushed some of the (unidentifiable) meat out from between the two slices of bread. Too wrapped up in the moment, Alfred failed to notice the runaway poultry (or pork, or beef… Lovino _really_ couldn’t tell).

“He’s going down on that sandwich, isn’t he?” Matthew mumbled, turning around to stare at his brother. _Going down on_! That was the perfect term for it.

Lovino snickered at the thought. Alfred F. Jones, _going down_ on anything was beyond baffling.

Upon hearing his friend, Matthew spun back in his seat to face Lovino. His face was tinged pink—from embarrassment for himself or his brother, Lovino had yet to decipher.

“He sure does love food,” Lovino stated, somewhat obviously, still caught up in Jones’ actions. What was most fascinating was the lack of reaction from Jones’ tablemates—as though they were used to the disgusting behavior. Lovino himself wouldn’t have been able to condone it for more than two minutes—but then again, Lovino could hardly condone anything that Jones did, ever.

“It’s worse at home,” Commented Matthew, who finally returned to his own lunch, “he never fails to eats his weight in hamburgers.”

Lovino snickered again. He and Matthew exchanged a small, sly smile, their lips upturning in sync. They then both glanced in opposite directions, as though their mockery of Alfred might be overheard if they thought about it for too long.

Lovino mused, as he picked at the leftover pasta he’d packed, that he enjoyed Matthew like this. Quietly sassy with a quick tongue. The more they hung out after school, the more Lovino grew accustomed to Matthew’s quirks and mannerisms. It didn’t take long for Lovino to realize that he and Matthew were more alike than different.

They liked similar music (rock and the occasional pop song, although Lovino refused to admit it). They ate similar foods (though Matthew’s tastes were Americanized and he enjoyed an unhealthy amount of maple syrup on _everything_ ). They even watched the same TV shows (excluding Lovino’s occasional reality TV splurge). The only difference, on the surface, was the nature of their tempers. Matthew never failed to remain stoic, despite the occasional sarcastic comment or judgmental look. Lovino, on the other hand, could fly off the handle at the drop of a hat.

A shout echoed from Alfred’s table. He’d dropped part of his sandwich (some of the unidentifiable meat, it would seem) in his lap.

Rolling his eyes, Lovino shoveled a now lukewarm bite of pasta into his mouth.

“I love leftovers.” He commented after he had swallowed. Matthew, wrapped up in something on his phone, nodded absently.

Lovino, ready to finish off the last bit of food in his tupperware container, suddenly found that a shadow of some kind had fallen over the table. Lovino glanced up, and up, and up, and up—for there stood Ivan Braginsky. He had a small, almost imperceptible smile on his lips. That alone would not have been scary, however when Lovino met Ivan’s eyes, he found that they were completely void of emotion. The coldness in them was enough to make goosebumps erupt across Lovino’s arms. He resisted the urge to shiver and wrap his arms around his torso.

“Braginsky,” Lovino said, clenching his teeth around the name like it was some kind of dangerous word. As though, if said enough times, Ivan might appear as a ghostly apparition with murderous intent.

That didn’t matter, because the real Ivan was here, with piercing eyes and a dangerous smile. That was far more terrifying than a ghost.

At least a ghost could be exorcised.

“What do you want?” asked Lovino.

Braginsky’s eyes, if possible, grew colder still. He could feel Matthew’s questioning gaze, but Lovino couldn’t seem to look away, despite his primal desire to do so.

“I am here to… make exchange,” Ivan said, his voice tinged with a disturbing child-like tone. “You have my money, yes?”

Lovino hadn’t the slightest clue what Braginsky was talking about. He did pause for a moment to consider it—when he might’ve made some sort of deal with Ivan—and came up with nothing. Perhaps Braginsky was delusional. Lovino broke eye contact at last to share a perplexed look with Matthew.

“Braginsky…” Lovino said, staring at the table now. His pasta was going to go cold. “I think you’re confused. I don’t owe you jack shit.”

Lovino glanced at Braginsky just as the man was leaning in, his body bent nearly in half so that his torso came nearly parallel to the table. His scarf brushed against Lovino’s arm, where it was resting beside his abandoned brown paper lunch bag. This close, Braginsky radiated frigidity. Lovino repressed a shudder.

“You are quite silly,” Braginsky said, his eyes narrowed. There was no playfulness to the smile on his face now. Lovino saw nothing but cruelty in his expression. “yes?”

Then, suddenly, Braginsky brought a heavy hand down on the table. It shook slightly, without sound—there was nothing on the surface to rattle. Lovino heard rather than saw Matthew scoot his chair backward, away from the table, away from Braginsky.

Lovino grit his teeth, ignoring the way his heart was pounding in his chest. His urge to _fly_ was winning over his urge to _fight._

Lovino knew that he had to settle this now though. If he didn’t, Braginsky wouldn’t let it go.

“Yes, I’m _fucking_ hilarious. But what’s really funny, Braginsky, is that you walked all the way over here from your table of rejects and creeps,” and it was true—Ivan generally spent his time with Yao and Company during lunch, “only to come away empty handed. ‘cuz I don’t owe you anything.” Lovino said, ignoring the slight tremor in his voice.

Braginsky scowled. Lovino mirrored him, though he knew that it looked far less intimidating on his own face. From the corner of his eye, Lovino noted that Braginsky’s fingers were clenching and unclenching against his palm. His knuckles were turning white. Lovino leaned back, subtly, a sudden reaction to the impending realization that he might be punched in the face in the next few seconds.

Then, from the depths of Ivan’s trench coat, came the familiar _ding_ of an impending text.

Braginsky drew back slightly, reaching instinctively into his pocket to fish for his phone. Lovino too leaned away, exchanging another fear-charged glance with Matthew. Lovino silently prayed that his face was void of all emotion when he shifted his attention back to Braginsky.

The strange facade of calm was back in place, completed with the miniscule, unnerving smile. Braginsky tucked the phone away.

“Apologies, Lovino,” Braginsky drawled. “You Italians all look the same. An honest mistake, I have made.”

Without further comment, Braginsky performed an awkward, half-bow, and left.

Lovino, feeling shaky, spun in his seat so he was fully facing the table once more. He clenched and unclenched his hands once, feeling the blood rush back into his fingers.

 _“You Italians all look the same.”_ The statement wouldn’t leave his mind. The only other Italian, possibly in their school, and certainly in their grade, was Feliciano. Feliciano, who was his twin. Feliciano, who might or might not have owed Braginsky money.

Owing Braginsky anything was like selling your soul to the devil. You might be able to hold onto it for a while, but eventually he’d come calling to take everything you had.

 _What the fuck is Feli doing making deals with Ivan?_ Lovino thought.

_“You Italians all look the same.”_

“That was weird.” Matthew stated with a raised, questioning brow. Although it was clear that Matthew expected some kind of verbal answer, perhaps an explanation, Lovino simply hummed in response.

Even _he_ couldn’t fully comprehend what had just happened. But he would, eventually. Lovino was determined not to be left in the lurch after such a discomforting interaction.

Lovino picked his fork up. The pasta was cold now, true to Lovino’s earlier prediction. He ate it anyway.

* * *

 “So I heard something today,” Lovino hedged as he pulled the car out of the parking spot. His brother, ensconced in his phone, didn’t even look up.

“Good to know that your ears are still working, _fratello_.”

Had the situation not been so serious, Lovino would have laughed. Instead, he gripped the steering wheel with a certain kind of single-minded determination. Driving on autopilot, he turned right.

“Ha ha.” He said dryly. It sounded false, mechanical, even to Lovino. It was that tone that made Feliciano turn his phone off, a concerned expression on his face, pivoting in his seat so he could pay full attention to Lovino.

“So?” Feliciano asked after a brief moment of silence, in which Lovino couldn’t bring himself to formulate his thoughts into words. “What did you hear?”

 _What did he hear?_ Braginsky hadn’t been explicit—he hadn’t _said_ that it was Feliciano who owed him money. Besides, what could Ivan possibly be selling to Feliciano anyway?

The only thing that Braginsky _did_ sell was drugs. And even that was a subject of much speculation—there was no hard evidence to back it up, Lovino himself had never sought out Ivan to find out for himself, and Braginsky was discreet when he needed to be. Although Lovino wouldn’t necessarily consider the interaction he’d had with Ivan earlier that day to be _discreet._

Feliciano was just so innocent. Sure, he smoked pot, but to do hard drugs… No. Lovino couldn’t even think of what would tempt Feli to start on that shit in the first place, even if he could get his hands on it.

And yet, Lovino couldn’t be sure. _“You Italians all look the same.”_  If Lovino didn’t ask his brother now, doubt would gnaw at him until he exploded—which would cause nothing but a useless argument between them. It was probably better to talk to Feliciano while Lovino was still calm.

“Braginsky… Ivan. Came up to me at lunch. He asked me for money. I think he mistook me for you.” Lovino paused, in part to focus on driving. He braked at a red light.

Feliciano still hadn’t said anything. Lovino glanced at his brother. Feli was staring at his hands, motionless.

“You don’t…” Lovino swallowed against the bitter taste in the back of his throat. “You don’t know anything about that, right? You’re not involved?”

Feliciano’s eyes met his. His face, usually an open book, was suddenly devoid of emotion. His eyes were the worst. The longer that Lovino stared at them, the longer he began to draw similarities to Braginsky’s. Not cold, necessarily, but certainly something primal resided there, something feral. A need, perhaps, to protect his secrets. A barricade he’d built to carefully conceal his thoughts from invaders.

Then, suddenly, Feliciano cracked a smile. The look in his eyes receded, and words began to tumble from Feli’s mouth as per usual, “No, _fratello,_ that’s so weird! I had a class with Ivan last year but I barely even know him, though we did talk about Russian history once, veeee… oh! Speaking of Russian history, Luddy told me something interesting he learned in class today…”

And as Feliciano’s definitive statement fell into familiar rambling, Lovino couldn’t help but notice the lingering tightness around Feli’s eyes, the unnatural wideness of his grin. His brother, it would seem, was fraying at the edges.

A car honked from behind Lovino. Realizing that the light had turned green, Lovino pressed down on the gas.

He gripped the steering wheel tighter. His brother was okay. His brother was not buying coke, or heroin, or angel dust, or any of that shit from Ivan _fucking_ Braginsky. Everything was _fine._

After all, Lovino had always been good at pretending.

* * *

The following morning, Lovino awoke with a pounding head and a tiredness in his limbs that could not be shaken. He rolled over, checking his alarm clock (6:45 a.m.) and his phone (no new messages). His exposed arms and face were cold compared to the rest of him—buried securely beneath layers of blankets. Lovino’s lack of motivation, combined with the coldness of the room outside the shelter of his covers he’d inevitably have to face if he got out of bed, prompted him to roll back onto his side and fold his pillow over his face.

Feliciano knocked on his door twenty minutes later, alerting him that it was time for school. Lovino didn’t respond. After a moment of hesitation, Feliciano sighed and walked down the hall. Lovino listened to his brother’s footsteps on the stairs and regretted not putting in more effort, at least to get up and answer the door. If not for himself, for Feli.

Twenty minutes after Feliciano left, Lovino was just drifting back into a trace, sleep-like state when his Nonno barged into his room.

Shocked, Lovino sat up in bed, pulling the covers to his chin like a thirteenth-century harlot.

“Romano!” His grandfather announced, moving immediately to the window and throwing the curtains back to let in the sunlight. It was an unnaturally bright day for mid-February, so much so that Lovino blinked and shied away in order for his eyes to better adjust.

“You’re taking an off day, I see.” His Nonno commented, sitting at the edge of Lovino’s bed with a warm smile on his face.

 _An off day,_ Lovino thought, amusement and guilt both rolling in his gut, _if only he knew._

His Nonno, although not mad, clearly wanted some kind of response. Lovino said, “Yeah. Sorry, Nonno, I just need a break from school.”

His Nonno’s brows pulled together slightly, a warm hand reaching out to pat his leg comfortingly. Or rather, a lump where he thought Lovino’s leg was—the bed did have a lot of blankets on it, after all.

“Is everything alright?” His grandfather asked, concern written across his face.

And even though everything was most certainly not alright, Lovino didn’t have the heart to trouble his grandfather with his problems.

“Yeah,” Lovino said, smiling in a way that he hoped was reassuring, “everything’s fine. Just under the weather, is all.”

With another pat to Lovino’s (not) leg, his grandfather stood. Lovino’s weak attempt to be convincing had worked, at least, and his Nonno smiled down at him in a secretive way that grandparents sometimes do. “Alright, if you say so Lovino. I’ll call the school for you before I go to work.”

“Thank you, Nonno.”

“Don’t forget to take your pills when you wake up again.” With that, and one last kindly look, Lovino’s grandfather left—shutting the door softly behind him. Lovino, refusing to feel guilty or upset—as though he had somehow betrayed his grandfather’s trust just now—leaned back against the pillows.

He checked the time (7:29) and his phone (just one, from Matthew. It was a meme. Lovino sent a thumbs-up emoji in response.). Then, Lovino pulled the covers up over his face and vowed to never wake up again.

* * *

Unfortunately, Lovino _did_ wake up, eventually. It was noon, and the house was empty, so Lovino took the time not to be a productive human being, as he knew he should. Instead, Lovino sat on the couch in his underwear, watching _Keeping Up with the Kardashians_ without shame. He might or might not have cradled a pint of strawberry ice cream as he did so. Telling himself that he only had time for one episode, Lovino settled back against the cushions.

The problem with reality TV, however, is that it is unassumingly addictive and time-consuming. Thus, three hours later, Lovino was still in the same spot, mid-click to select “watch next episode”, when his brother walked through the door.

And he was not alone.

At the sound of voices, Lovino couldn’t help but look away from the TV. Feliciano appeared as chipper as ever, his ugly orange scarf tied loosely around his neck. It was the same scarf that Feliciano had knit himself when he’d been caught up in a craft craze several years ago, and Feli absolutely adored it (even though Lovino, their grandfather, and countless others had begged Feli to burn the atrocity. Feliciano never listened to reason.) Lovino couldn’t quite see who his brother was talking to, as he or she was positioned just behind Feliciano and were standing in the doorway. Figuring that it was Ludwig or Kiku, Lovino turned around without comment, taking another bite of the now soupy strawberry mess.

“ _So you’re awake,”_ Feliciano snipped in Italian, catching sight of Lovino on the couch. The carefree expression had slipped slightly, revealing a harsh clench to his jaw, an unforgiving edge in his voice. Sensing Feliciano’s irritation, Lovino just mumbled “yeah” by way of response. Lovino wasn’t sure why Feli was upset, although he supposed that it might be in part caused by the prying discussion they’d had the previous day, or perhaps Lovino’s disregard of Feli earlier that morning.

“ _Tomato Peque_ _ñ_ _o.”_ A voice greeted, and Lovino sunk further down the couch to avoid being seen.

Which was, of course, preposterous—Antonio had already spotted Lovino. _Fuck my life,_ Lovino thought bitterly, staring down judgmentally at his stained sweatpants and inside-out T-shirt.

Antonio looked great, of course. His cheeks were ruddy from being out in the cold and his eyelashes were scattered with melting snow flakes. His hair, windswept and tousled, was also snow-speckled. His jacket, more of a glorified hoodie than an actual winter coat, was rolled up at the sleeves—revealing tan forearms. And was it weird to be attracted to forearms, of all things, because Lovino was definitely featuring Antonio’s in several of his dirty fantasies right about now.

“I was wondering why you weren’t in English today,” Antonio said, “though it’s not exactly new behavior from you, now is it?”

Lovino thought of it—Antonio, sitting at his seat in Ms. B’s class, sending glances around the room as the clock ticked down until the second bell, Lovino’s own empty space next to Matthew.

But then—Lovino imagined Antonio sitting at his seat, face forward, intrigued but unsurprised when Ms. B called roll and she didn’t have to double check that Lovino wasn’t present in class.

And if _that_ didn’t make Lovino feel a cocktail of fury, shame, and desperation, he didn’t know what could. It rolled in his gut for a moment, that odd mixture of emotion, and Lovino bit _hard_ against his lip to quell the feeling.

“What the fuck are you doing here, anyway? In my home?” Snapped Lovino, purposefully, a defense tactic. To emphasize his surliness, he snatched the spoon from inside the mostly empty ice cream carton and shoveled another bite into his mouth. He hoped that it came off to be intimidating, but it was more petulant than anything.

Feliciano raised an eyebrow, as though to say _I know what you’re doing, Lovino,_ but rambled instead, without comment on Lovino’s behavior, “I wanted to get an art book from the used book store, but I didn’t know which one I wanted to get and asked Antonio to come with me. It’s always fun to hang out with my friends and get their opinions on things! I haven’t seen him in a while, so what better time to catch up?”

At that, Antonio beamed at Feli, the smile so wide it caused Antonio’s eyes to narrow, crow’s feet appearing at the corners of his eyelids. He bounced slightly on his toes, too, which made him resemble an overexcited four-year-old. Although the attention wasn’t aimed at Lovino, he couldn’t help but feel enraptured by Antonio’s happiness. Lovino wanted to capture that genuine emotion and keep it, protect it.

He should really just take a picture. It’d probably last longer.

Lovino was, in a sense, happy for his brother. That he was reaching out beyond his usual circle of friends—Ludwig and Kiku, primarily, but there were others. His brother was friendly with everyone, but he had a spare few friends.

Another, deeper part of Lovino, however, envied his brother—and the ease at which he attained people’s trust. More so, how Feliciano seemed to draw people to him, no matter their differences in personality or circumstance. Lovino wanted to be able to do that—not only with Antonio (though he took precedent over everyone else that Feliciano interacted with) but with anyone that he came across. Still, Lovino remained defensive and standoffish, even when he didn’t want to be.

When Feliciano was defensive, people (total strangers) would jump to his aid, would ask him what was wrong. When Lovino was defensive, people (total strangers and those Lovino had known all his life) ignored him.

Lovino’s thoughts had spiraled onto a familiar path that had been tread many times before. It was no longer about Antonio (well, it was still about Antonio, in a twisted way) but rather Feliciano—and their vast differences, despite sharing nearly the exact same genetic code.

It was this jealousy, in part, that made Lovino spit, without considering what he was saying, “Why would you want Antonio’s help? You said so yourself, he fucking sucks at art.”

He was attempting to hurt Feliciano and Antonio in one blow—causing strife between the two friends over what Feliciano had mentioned weeks and weeks ago.

And his attempt worked. Deep down, Lovino had been hoping that it wasn’t going to—that Antonio and Feliciano would laugh him off. But the smile dropped from Antonio’s face abruptly, as a badly-formed paper airplane would from the air. He blinked, once, at Lovino—and Lovino saw, maybe for the first time, melancholy on Antonio's features. It was inscribed in the furrow of his brow, in the gentle downturn of his now-pursed lips. In the tap-tap-tap of his fingers where they lay against his now-crossed arms. And, most telling of all, Antonio’s dejection was apparent in the brittle smile that replaced the one he’d been wearing just moments before—the falsity of it perceivable by the downturn of Antonio’s eyes.

Feliciano just looked frustrated. And sad. _Dammit_ , Lovino had just called him out in front of his friend? Why couldn’t his brother be mad for once?

Something sharp twisted in Lovino’s stomach, adding to the _angerjealousylustshame_ —something that reminded Lovino suspiciously of guilt.

“I—” Lovino started, unsure of what he was going to say but knowing that he had to do _something_ , before Antonio interrupted—

—“I’m not very good at art but that’s okay! At least I tried my best when I was there, and that’s what counts.” The brittle smile became malicious, as Antonio snapped, underhandedly, “I guess that’s how we’re different, Lovi _no_ , since I put my best effort into everything I do, and you just don’t give a fuck.”

The emphasis on Lovino’s name was a slap across the face. For the first time, perhaps in years, Lovino was speechless. He gulped, once, blinking rapidly and unable to stop.

“You’re right,” Lovino said, slowly, and why did Antonio have such a sway over Lovino? Over his emotions? By all accounts, Lovino had a merely physical crush on Antonio. He hardly knew anything about him--how he took his coffee or what novel he most enjoyed or what made him tragically, hopelessly sad. Lovino didn’t know what Antonio wanted from life, didn’t know if Antonio knew what Antonio wanted from life. Lovino didn’t even know if he and Antonio had anything in common—minus a few friends and an English class that Lovino regularly avoided. Antonio absolutely should _not_ be able to make Lovino feel guilty—not only for being cruel, earlier, but for somehow letting Antonio down. For not meeting Antonio’s expectations, for not being more of a success.

In Antonio’s eyes, Lovino was a failure. Lovino was used to being a failure, with Nonno and Feliciano, but never like this. His family was, in a sense, stuck with Lovino. Antonio was not—and he could step away from Lovino’s inadequate existence at any time.

Lovino had always, to some degree, known that he was not enough. But this? This _stung._

Lovino nodded, and stood. He couldn’t bear to look at his brother, much less Antonio, as he shuffled past them on the way to the stairs. “Anyway,” he said, trying not to sound fractured, splintered, “don’t fucking touch my cereal, but otherwise help yourself to anything in the pantry. I’ll be in my room if you need me.”

They wouldn’t, but that was okay. Lovino didn’t know if he could take their combined attention, positive or not.

Lovino closed his door behind him, shuffling to his bed. He buried himself beneath the covers, a mimicry of his position earlier that morning, and reached for the book on his bedside table. The eyes of Dr. T. J. Eckleburg stared up at Lovino—their eerie yellow gaze passing quiet judgement. Lovino sighed, running a thumb over the curve of the “G” in Gatsby, flipping to where he’d last dogeared his place.

Hours passed—so that the window had grown dark and Lovino had turned his soft bedside lamp on—when a gentle knock came at his door.

Lovino slipped the book beneath the covers, calling, “Yeah?”

His brother pushed the door open, one of his arms positioned awkwardly behind his back as if to conceal something. A kind expression was on his face—lips upturned and brow without furrow. He edged his way into the room, making his way toward the bed to sit on it’s edge.

“Antonio had to go to the supermarket,” Feliciano said, as though that explained everything, “um, when I was at the store I saw this, it was on sale and I figured…”

Feliciano trailed off, choosing instead to thrust whatever was in his hand under Lovino’s nose. It was, Lovino noted as he drew his hand out from beneath the covers to take the object, a book. A history book, in fact, the cover of which depicted a dramatic scene of clashing armies. The spine was slightly worn when Lovino ran his finger over it, cracked in several places. A musty smell, like the spongy wood of a fallen and decaying tree after a rainstorm, wafted up when Lovino flipped through the pages.

It was perfect.

Lovino had indulged in numerous novels dealing with historical events, and he could never complain about an addition to his collection. That it was from his brother made the gift even more valuable.

He really didn’t deserve Feliciano. Even when Lovino thought that he hated his brother—an emotion that he’d hedged at earlier but not fully embraced—Lovino didn’t deserve Feliciano.

“ _Grazie_ ,” Lovino whispered, sharing a secret smile with his brother, “ _mi dispiace._ ”

Feliciano squeezed his hand once before letting go, stepping back, “It’s okay, Lovi.” He hovered for a moment, before mumbling, embarrassed, “Goodnight.”

As Lovino settled back, head swimming, he couldn’t help but think that, despite everything, that at least he had Feliciano’s support.

* * *

That night, Lovino dreamed of Antonio. Antonio’s eyes, blazing unnaturally bright. Antonio’s sharp jaw, colliding with (nuzzling against) Lovino’s. Antonio’s hands, one around the back of Lovino’s neck, the other impossibly _everywhere._

It felt, to Lovino, as though he were underwater. Every touch, every _everything_ was muted, slow. Lovino couldn’t decide if it was appreciated—the ability to relish the feeling of Antonio longer—or if it was detestable.

The worst part was Antonio’s smile, his words. Though the rest of Antonio appeared over exaggerated, idealized, Antonio’s smile was the same as in reality—bottom teeth slightly crooked, nearly invisible scar along the crease between his upper and lower lips, corners turned up with jubilee. And Antonio’s words, although warped, were intelligent, insightful—Lovino didn’t need to know what was being said to understand that. It was written all over Antonio’s face.

Lovino awoke gasping for air like a drowning man.

* * *

“So Gilbert’s having a party this weekend,” Feli commented over breakfast on Thursday. “on Saturday.”

Lovino glanced at his brother over the box of cereal. His brother wore a coy smile, as though he knew that Lovino knew that there was a party.

“So?” Lovino asked, shoveling a bite of Fruit Loops into his mouth before mumbling, with a full mouth, “What’s your point?”

There was a brief silence. Loivno peeked at his brother again. He was still wearing that up-to-no-damn-good expression. _Shit._

“So,” Feli said, drawing the word out, “Luddy and Gilbert need help setting up. And I was thinking you—”

“No.” Lovino snapped, wanting to end the conversation there. His desire to get drunk—specifically, to get drunk with free booze—was far outweighed by his desire to not see Gilbert ever again—and, perhaps Antonio as well. Lovino had not forgotten the conversation he’d eavesdropped upon a week ago, in which Antonio had asked permission to attend and Gilbert had conceded. So no, Lovino absolutely, posi-tutely, one hundred percent did _not_ want to go to Gilbert’s shindig.

Except, Feliciano was saying, with a smug smile, “But Lovi, they’ve only got five people to set up, that’s me, Ludwig, Gilbert, Francis, and Antonio, and Gilbert is probably gonna need to go out to get drinks and Luddy and I are gonna buy food and that only leaves you Francis and Antonio to set up the _entire house_ —”

“I’m sure that the five of you can manage to set out some beers and plug the speakers in—”

“—and if you don’t do it I’m telling Nonno that it was actually _you_ who forgot to buy groceries last week and who messed up dinner.”

Lovino nearly swallowed his tongue.

 _Damn_ Feliciano. His brother wasn’t always the most cunning, but when he was, he was absolutely fantastic at it. And Feliciano had him in a corner. Their Nonno was forgiving when it came to all but two things—food and lying. And Lovino had messed with both before proceeding to blame it on his brother (and looking back that was both a dick move and a tactical error). Lovino had unintentionally given his brother an advantage, and now he was at his mercy.

Lovino considered it, briefly, weighing his options. On one hand, the wrath of their grandfather—which most likely wouldn’t be too terrible in this situation, as it was not (by a long shot) the craziest or most irresponsible thing Lovino had ever done. Still, their grandfather was terrifying, when he wanted to be.

On the other hand—a party. Not just that, but assisting in setting up said party. With two people that he didn’t particularly like (well, that was a lie—Lovino didn’t like that he couldn’t _stop_ liking Antonio). But after that, free booze. Lovino didn’t even have to interact with Gilbert or Antonio during the party itself.

Hesitantly, Lovino looked at his brother. Feliciano still had a _gotcha_ expression on his face—eyebrow raised, mouth smug, arms crossed on the table in front of him. Lovino glared at him steadily, hoping to intimidate his brother and have him drop the act.

No dice. Feliciano stood firm.

“Dammit,” Lovino muttered, before saying, “Fine. But don’t expect me to be fucking happy about it.”

Feliciano grinned, and reached for his phone, “Great! Now I can text Luddy and let him know... I’m so excited! You’ve never been to a Beilschmidt bash…”

Lovino allowed his brother’s voice to wash over him, words becoming indistinguishable, as Lovino sunk into a black abyss of regret and despair. He took another bite of his cereal. It tasted of ash.

* * *

“Chips? Really, Gilbert? This isn’t some infantile party in _maman_ ’s basement.” Francis commented, pointing judgmentally at the bowl of aforementioned snack resting unsuspectingly on the table.

Gilbert poked his head out of the fridge, arms full of coke cans. “Those chips aren’t for the party, _dummkopf_ , they’re for us.”

At the good news, Francis’ face lit up, and he promptly reached for a handful of chips.

“You’re going to ruin my figure, my dear.” He said, or rather attempted to, because he had shoved the entire fistful into his mouth.

Lovino sneered in disgust, staring back down at his phone. He had already mostly exhausted his conversation with Matthew, who was coming to the party with Lovino later that evening. They had been sending memes to one another for a solid hour now, and Lovino was running out.

Lovino also couldn’t talk to Feliciano, since his brother was otherwise occupied at the moment. Feliciano had walked into the house, located Ludwig, and promptly dragged him up the stairs to “put up streamers.” Something was going to be streaming alright, but it certainly wasn’t for the party. Lovino cringed away from the notion. _Gross,_ he thought, and tried to replace the mental image of his brother and Ludwig getting it on with something less offensive. Like flowers. Or kittens. Or Antonio Carriedo’s biceps.

Which, speaking of—

“You’re right Francis, these are great!” Antonio said exaggeratedly. He plucked a chip from the bowl and tossed it into his mouth. Somehow, his muscles managed to _flex_ as he did so. On top of that, Antonio, upon biting down on the salty snack, groaned dramatically with pleasure at the taste.

Lovino blinked hard. He could _not_ get a semi in Gilbert Beilschmidt’s kitchen, of all places. Over Antonio eating a goddamn potato chip.

_Lord help him._

“Save some room for the booze, ‘Tonio.” commented Gilbert over his shoulder as he reached for solo cups in the overhead cabinets.

Antonio sat down at the counter, across from Lovino. The two did not make eye contact, although Lovino glanced at him fervently when he thought Antonio would not be looking.

Antonio’s nose was sharp in profile, as he spun on the stool. Lovino pictured that nose, bumping against his, their breath shared. Lovino imagined that his breath would smell fresh, like clean laundry on a summer day or the sharp mint of freshly brushed teeth. His lips would be soft too, no doubt. Lovino had never seen Antonio bite or chew at them--unlike Lovino, who had too many anxious habits to count.

“I’m just not feeling it tonight, but thanks Gil.” Antonio said, before taking another chip. Lovino blinked, and looked away. An unstoppable heat broke across his cheeks. Lovinio pressed his hands over his cheeks, as though he could somehow repress the rushing blood beneath his skin.

“I much prefer these.” Antonio waggled a chip in front of his face before popping it into his mouth. “They do nothing for my figure, but so much for my soul.”

Lovino resisted the urge to laugh. He silently concurred.

“Careful, Francis is rubbing off on you.” Said Gilbert.

Francis, a wicked grin plastered on his face, glanced from Gilbert to Antonio. Like a cat slinking toward it’s prey, Francis slipped behind Antonio. Head bent, arms wrapping around Antonio’s shoulders, Francis whispered, “I have always wanted to rub off on you, _mon petit ange_.”

Lovino felt bile in his throat. He swallowed desperately, reaching blindly for a glass of water Gilbert had placed in front of him when he’d sat down. He didn’t have to go far, and took several quick gulps before setting the cup back down with a muted _chink._

Francis had untangled himself from Antonio by the time that Lovino was brave enough to look that way again. Francis stood at the sink, his back to the rest of the room. Lovino’s eyes wandered, trailing across the counter, and to Antonio’s face where they stuck—because Antonio was staring right back.

Antonio raised a questioning brow, but the smug smile at the corner of his mouth told Lovino that he hadn’t been as subtle with his previous looks. Lovino could feel the heat on his cheeks. He sneered, glancing away.

Gilbert took a few beers out of the grocery bags at his feet, setting them on the counter, popping the tab on one of them. When Francis reached for it, Gilbert screeched, “No!” and proceeded to chug the entire thing to avoid Francis from getting his (admittedly grabby) hands on it.

“What are you doing, _mon ami?_ Give me Kölsch or give me death!”  

Gilbert tossed the empty can in the trash, wiping his foam-crusted mouth, stating flatly, “Fuck off, you’re fucking unawesome and terrible when you’re drunk.” He turned to Antonio and Lovino, both of whom were watching the interaction with a kind of stunned amazement, “Just a word of advice, never get Francis drunk.”

Antonio laughed, as though he knew of the trials and tribulations of one drunken Francis. Lovino, on the other hand, remained stone-faced.

“ _Que_?” Francis asked, sounding affronted.

“Yeah,” Gilbert nodded his head, agreeing with himself, “all he does is quote Robespierre and _Les Miserables_.”

Francis, offended, placed a hand on his chest. “Me? Robespierre? The best novel ever written? I am offended that you think so low of me.”

Gilbert scoffed. For once in his life, Lovino agreed.

“Besides, you won’t be able to control me during the party, Gilbert.” Francis said, reaching inconspicuously for a can of beer.

Gilbert snatched said beer away, stating, “Yes, but I can control you now, you Mona Lisa-loving Frenchman.”

Francis gasped, pressing a pale hand over his buttoned shirt, “Do you hear this?” he asked, swiveling his head between Antonio and Lovino with a wide-eyed look on his face, “This is racism!”

Antonio responded, a finger held in front of his face factually, “No, Francis. In order for it to be racist, there has to be a socio-historic system of oppression in place against the race or ethnicity of the person which you are insulting based upon said race or ethnicity.”

Gilbert, who had moved in on the chips and had a mouthful, spat (spraying crumbs across the counter), “What?”

“Ah, but how do you explain the Irish?” mentioned Francis, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed and an impossibly smug look on his face. Lovino glanced at Antonio, silently hoping that he would retort smartly.

And he did, saying, “Yes, and there was a system of oppression in place there.”

And the discussion went on.

Lovino, fascinated by the philosophical conversation that had sprung up (especially considering their previous discussion, which had been less than intelligent, to say the least) listened attentively for several minutes. Antonio, in particular, argued particularly well—not that Lovino would expect anything different. At one point, Lovino considered chiming in to discuss the distinction between slaves of ancient civilizations and chattel slavery, but his phone buzzing distracted him.

 **Matthew (4:57):** hey lmk when you’ll be arriving

Lovino typed a response, noting that it was almost five o’clock and he should probably get going soon. He checked Facebook, briefly, switched to Twitter, and then back to Facebook. Soon, he lost track of the conversation that was going on around him, until:

“—well that’s what I’m saying! Atticus is a progressive character, and even states that in a white man’s world, white men are bound to win. That is why he’s hailed as a hero, because he stands against the commonly held ideals of white people in the south at that time period—“

“But why should he be hailed as a hero?” Lovino asked, swept up in the change of topic, “Sure Atticus was before his time in some respects, Lee purposefully wrote him that way, but like Robinson still fucking loses the trial and his life, right? But everyone always forgets about that. ‘Oooh, yeah, Atticus rocks, but this guy still _dies_ but we can overlook that no problem.’ Sounds like bullshit to me.”

Lovino, slightly out of breath after his rant, took a long sip of water. When he set the glass back down, Antonio, Gilbert, and Francis were all staring at him, slack-jawed.

Gilbert snapped out of it first, “Ha! I never read that unawesome book, but you make a good point, Vargas.”

Francis sniffed at him.

Antonio was still staring, and Lovino considered snapping, “Do I have something on my goddamn face?” but then Antonio began to smile.

It was more out of astonishment than anything, Lovino could tell. But still, Antonio’s eyes were sparkling slightly, his full attention focused on Lovino.

“Interesting assertion, Lovino,” Antonio said, slowly, as though he was afraid that he’d spook Lovino. To be honest, Lovino was already pretty scared at his methodical tone of voice, “please, tell me more.”

“I, um,” Lovino scratched the back of his neck anxiously. Francis and Gilbert had started talking about something else—football, or beer pong, Lovino couldn’t tell which—but Antonio was all he could truly focus on. No matter where his gaze drifted, Lovino always came back to Antonio.

After a moment, Antonio made a gentle _go on_ motion with his hand. He was still smiling.

_Damn him._

“Er, well. I guess you could look at it from two perspectives, really. In the end, Robinson dies, even though there’s evidence suggesting that he didn’t commit the crime. Taking into consideration similar cases in the U.S. around that time period, Lee is definitely making a statement about the futility of the justice system, as well as the racial bias that was clearly around during that era. On the other hand, Atticus is seen throughout the novel as a hero, especially to his kids. Him being a proponent for Robinson, especially since he’s black, could just be another way for Lee to paint him as a white knight.”

Gilbert broke away, goading, “That’s a lot of big words there, Vargas.” Lovino ignored him.

Antonio nodded slowly, probably considering what Lovino had said. Or thinking of a way to ruin the conversation.

As it would turn out, he’d do both. “Interesting assertions, I see where you’re coming from with both,” Antonio said, and Lovnio’s throat felt tight with emotion, because he gained Antonio’s approval—despite the triviality of the discussion.

Then, Antonio’s grin grew wider, so much so that it began to hedge upon “shit-eating” territory. “And what’re your thoughts on _The Great Gatsby_?”

Oh, _no._ Lovino’s elation was dashed in an instant.

Because now Antonio _knew._ Lovino had given away too much—he’d sprung too early at the opportunity to impress Antonio and appear smart while doing so. He’d given up his apathetic act, only to replace it with something far worse—passion. Lovino had revealed that he _cared_ —about _To Kill a Mockingbird,_ about their English class and project, about something that Antonio was interested in.

Lovino prided himself on his apathy. And now it was for naught, and all in the name of a senseless crush.

Gilbert and Francis were looking at him again, as was Antonio—expectation written across their smug goddamn faces. Francis and Gilbert surely didn’t know the stakes but they could sense the tension, and Antonio. _Antonio._

Damn Antonio and his perfect smile and his large biceps and his intelligent thought-provoking discussions and his stupid accent. Damn him to hell.

Unable to discern if he should curse Antonio out or actually dive into literary analysis, Lovino reacted the only way he knew how:

Badly.

“Well, if that isn’t the time,” Lovino practically shouted, staring down at his bare wrist as though examining a watch, “as fun as it’s been to hang out with you jerkoffs, I’ve gotta go pick up Matthew. Later!”

And Lovino was out of his seat, down the hall, and out the front door before he could think twice. He pulled out his phone with one hand, sending two texts in rapid succession (one to his brother, to indicate where he was going, and the other to Matthew, to let him know he was on his way), and fumbling for his keys with the other.

As he slid behind the wheel, Lovino took a deep, steadying breath. He couldn’t let Antonio and his antics anger him. Or excite him.

Lovino, feeling significantly less rattled now, put the car into drive. He could do this. All he had to do was keep it together until tonight. Then he could get mind-numbingly drunk, and forget about the exchange he just had completely.

* * *

By the time that he pulled up in front of Matthew’s house, Lovino felt grounded again. The drive over had been almost therapeutic, despite the fact that Feliciano’s obnoxious opera tape was playing on full blast. Though before he texted Matthew that he had arrived, Lovino turned the sound system off. They’d be listening to plenty of loud music later that evening—there was no need to go half-deaf before then.  

A few minutes later, Lovino spotted Matthew walking down the driveway, backpack slung over his shoulder. As he drew closer, Lovino noted with apprehension his unnaturally firm gait, the tenseness of his muscles. When he got in the car, he slammed the door shut, huffing dramatically as he sat.

“You good?” Lovino asked.

Matthew dropped his backpack between his feet, and proceeded to reach around, groping for his seatbelt. Like this, Lovino couldn’t see his face—which might have been what he was going for, because Matthew mumbled, “yeah, fine,” in an incomprehensible tone.

“Alright, don’t tell me,” Lovino responded, but didn’t push the issue. As they drove away from the looming Jones mansion, Matthew’s anger seemed to deflate. Once they were out of the neighborhood, Matthew appeared to be back to his regular self.

“Sorry about that,” Matthew commented after a moment. Lovino, at a stop sign and not entirely focused on his friend, merely hummed.

“Alfred’s just… being a pain in my ass. As usual.”

Lovino chuckled. “When isn’t he though?”

Matthew, without response, was quiet. Lovino wondered, briefly, what had caused such a reaction. Matthew, although occasionally fragile, seemed unable to be rattled by most things. He was opposite of Lovino, who was angry at the drop of a hat. Especially when dealing with Alfred. This wasn’t the case with Matthew. After witnessing them interacting several times, Lovino had come to the conclusion that Matthew regarded his brother with a sort of quiet exasperation—the sort that was forged after years of getting accustomed to one’s behavior. This blatant frustration from Matthew, at least in regard to his brother, was entirely new.

“Well, I hope you packed your toothbrush,” Lovino commented, for he was never good at sitting in silence. He and Feliciano were similar in that respect, “‘cause we don’t have any extras at my place.”

“I did, no worries,” a beat, and then, “I’m excited. I’ve never been to a party like this before.”

Nervousness tinged Matthew’s tone. Lovino, not about to admit that he’d only been to one party of this size, and it had been hosted by his brother so it hardly counted, stated instead, with confidence, “You’ll be fine. I’ll stick with you, make sure you don’t get too fucked up. We’re gonna eat dinner at my place first though, party doesn’t start ‘til ten.”

Matthew shot him a thankful smile. Lovino, reassuringly, grinned back.

* * *

 **Me (7:32 pm):** hey feli u still @ the potat bastard

 **Me (7:32 pm):** *potato bastard’s

 **Me (8:17 pm):** ok now uve really had enough sex w that guy. its time to stop

 **Me (8:43 pm):** matt and i r playing WoW and ik its ur second favorite game after the sims

 **Me (8:59 pm):** fucking srsly feliciano. Im telling nonno

 **Feli (9:01 pm):** Heyyyyyy lovi! Sorry i didn’t reply i was taking care of some stuff w my friends. See you @ the party 2nite! <3 :)

 **Me (9:02 pm):** fucking finally. C u there

* * *

The room swirled from blue to green to red in an endless strobe. Music pounded into Lovino’s skull, rattling his teeth. Lovino took another sloppy sip from his cup, barely tasting the burn of vodka as it cascaded down his throat. The sensation was gone in the next moment, he was already stumbling to the baseline of the song and forgetting that he had a cup in his hand in the first place.

Lovino had long since passed tipsy, and was thoroughly smashed. His brother had disappeared with Ludwig hours ago—and seriously, what else was new—and Matthew had gone off to find a bathroom. In their absence, Lovino had started hitting the hard stuff, and he knew that he was going to have a hangover in the morning, but he just felt so _good_.

“Lovino!” Someone shouted over the music, and then Gilbert was there, face flashing red and green and blue, and _fuck_ Lovino hated Gilbert. His face was washed out beneath the strobe light and he was carrying a cup with a different color drink than Lovino’s. Tufts of hair stood out on the back of his head, and when he moved his neck a deep purple bruise showed. ( _A hickey,_ Lovino’s mind provided helpfully)

“What do you want, asshole?” Lovino said, or rather attempted to say—and Gilbert (who was also quite obviously drunk) could not quite make out what he was mumbling.

“Enjoying the party? It’s awesome, right?” Gilbert shouted, and pumped a fist in the air, uncaring that Lovino’s tone was less than friendly.

“I guess.” Lovino said, and it sounded coherent enough to Lovino’s own ear. Apparently Gilbert understood as well, because he nodded energetically in agreement.

The crowd seemed, at that moment, to part, and then from it came Francis, his hair sweaty and pasted to his forehead. His face was insufferably flushed.

Upon seeing Lovino, he leered and stepped closer. Lovino moved back in response, a gut reaction.

“Francis, _wist los_?” Gilbert shouted, slapping a friendly pat on Francis’ back before letting it drop.

Ignoring Gilbert completely, Francis purred something in French at Lovino, his blue eyes blazing. Lovino, disinterested took another sip from his cup. Francis moved closer. Lovino took a half step back.

“What, you don’t want to spend some time together, just you and I?” Francis asked, accent wrapping around the slurred words gracefully. Still, Lovino was certainly not interested in Francis, and he only grew more uncomfortable as Francis hovered in his personal bubble.

Unable to stand there anymore, Lovino pushed past Gilbert, moving through groups of people. Besides feeling uneasy because of Francis, a familiar pressure behind his bladder was building. Forgetting Francis entirely, all that Lovino needed, at this point, was to reach a toilet or a quiet spot to piss. Lovino thankfully did not have to ask anyone where the bathroom was, because he knew this layout—this house was exactly like his grandfather’s.

Bypassing the endless line waiting outside the first-floor bath, he stumbled up the stairs, avoiding couples leaning against the wall and talking. Disgruntled when he encountered two girls standing in his way that were attached at the lips, Lovino bisected them, ignoring their shouts of indignation as he continued.

Lovino had no memory of opening the bathroom door, turning the light switch on, and unzipping his pants, but he did remember sweet relief. Unfortunately, it didn’t last long. Because, midway through, he happened to glance into the bathtub next to the toilet, and saw the one and only Antonio Carriedo lounging in the basin.

“ _Fuck, shit_!” Lovino shouted, loudly, in Italian. His dick whipped, rather gracefully, to the side, along with the rest of Lovino’s body as he recoiled. Antonio, in response, bit back a laugh--his effort to be subtle unsuccessful. Obviously drunk in the way he threw his head back, unabashed, Antonio’s laughter sounded completely foreign to Lovino’s own drunken ear.

Lovino straightened himself, finishing his business as quickly as possible while maintaining steady eye contact with the wall. Antonio still hadn’t gotten ahold of himself, and Lovino loathed him in that moment. That had to explain the tightening of his throat, the rolling in his gut. Or, Lovino mused, perhaps that was the alcohol.

And yet, Lovino could not think of a time when Antonio had been more beautiful. Lovino glanced at him, in a moment of weakness, and instantly regretted it. Antonio’s eyes, so unlike Sadiq’s, were kind yet perceptive. His lips, full and kissable, looked beautiful when they were conveying merriment. His collarbone—an unusual aspect of someone to notice, perhaps, but Lovino observed it with fascination nonetheless—moving with the rest of his chest as he breathed.

Lovino did not know how much time had passed since he’d begun to stare, but he didn’t particularly care. He watched Antonio blink owlishly at him, as though recognizing him for the first time, and then, Lovino was out the door, his heart heavy in his chest.

 _Fuck shit fuck._ Lovino thought, a mantra, his pulse jumping beneath his skin. _Fuck_ , Lovino could feel his pulse. That wasn’t normal, something might’ve been slipped into his drink.

 _I bet it was Gilbert, that German bastard,_ Lovino thought absently, his mind whirling past the assumption a moment later. The entire world, in fact, was reeling a bit. Lovino kept moving to shake off the vertigo.

“Lovi!” For the second time that night, someone was calling to him, but Lovino couldn’t stop, didn’t stop, until:

“ _Tomato Peque_ _ñ_ _o!_ ”

Lovino halted, his feet before his legs, jerking forward so he had to grasp the banister to steady himself. The floor below, so incredibly far a fall that would be, swam mercilessly. His world was spinning, except the threads of that damned nickname ringing in his ears.

When was the last time he’d heard that nickname? Lovino couldn’t remember. It echoed in his ears, though, the reverberations cracking the foundation of his being, slightly,

“Carriedo.” He said, slowly, looking over his shoulder to see Antonio standing a few feet back. Sounds from the party wafted up through the floorboards, a loud pop song blasting in a language Lovino didn’t quite recognize. Someone was having extremely noisy sex in the guest bedroom. A couple, or maybe two friends, were fighting on the stairs. And yet, Antonio’s voice was the only thing Lovino could focus on.

“I thought you didn’t get drunk.” Lovino commented, hoping that he sounded at least halfway sober.

Antonio smiled, and the spotlight on the world brightened.

“Sometimes I do, sometimes I don’t,” Antonio said, accent thick, his voice trailing off as his hazy eyes shifted around the room. They locked on Lovino, and his smile dipped. The spotlight dimmed. “I thought I didn’t want to, and then...”

Antonio shrugged, a certain hopeless desperation to him that Lovino hadn’t seen before. _No,_ he had—earlier that week, in fact—and Lovino suddenly remembered the last time Antonio’d said that damned nickname to him.

Lovino, without realizing it, had moved to completely face Antonio. He took a step closer. The urge to speak arose, so suddenly, that Lovino spat something without thinking.

“You don’t have to do that shit, you know,” Lovino said, and nearly startled when Antonio’s eyebrows jumped in surprise. Clearly he hadn’t been expecting that, “drinking and shit. You’re too good for that, for them. You’re probably like, going places. Fucking Harvard. Maybe Yale.”

Lovino was really, _really_ drunk. Lovino also really, _really_ didn’t care. Let the world see Lovino Romano Vargas’ affection, fondness, for Antonio Carriedo. Let them know his weakness.

Antonio once again laughed, but it was softer, and nearly lost beneath the beat from below. He mumbled something incomprehensible in Spanish, and then: “You don’t have to worry about my future when you are so unsure of your own. Don’t worry about me, Lovi _no._ ” With emphasis. Lovino could kiss him.

Of his own volition, Lovino had come to stand toe-to-toe with Antonio, who was staring down at him with something in his eyes that Lovino couldn’t quite recognize. He wondered when he had arrived here—in front of Antonio, the do-good wonder-boy, both of them spectacularly drunk, in the Beilschmidt household, standing with barely an inch between them.

It didn’t matter, Lovino realized. The only thing that mattered was Antonio, and his eyes—the green irises made hazy by alcohol—and his lips—gently curved and slightly wet—and his jaw—

When Lovino was twelve, his grandfather had taken them down to stroll along the Tiber. Bored of the long walk with nothing to do, Lovino, wanting to swim, had attempted to dive into the rushing the taupe-colored water. At the last moment, his Nonno grabbed him around the waist, shouting in what Lovino had then thought to be anger, but now understood as fear.

Later, after Lovino was done crying over not doing what he wanted and being yelled at, his grandfather had explained that it wasn’t safe to act irrationally.

 _“You can’t just jump in head first, Lovino.”_ He’d explained patiently, wiping the remaining tears from Lovino’s face with his soft hands. “ _You have to think of the consequences before you act._ ”

“ _I’m sorry, grandpa._ ” Lovino muttered, now, repeating the words he’d said so long ago and a week ago and probably yesterday, and he was so close to Antonio that he could smell his cologne. It was intoxicating in an entirely new way. Lovino could get drunk on Antonio for eternity.

“ _Qu_ _é_ _?_ ” Antonio said, confusion written across his brow. That’s right, Lovino had spoken. He couldn’t remember what he’d said. It didn’t matter.

Throwing caution to the wind, Lovino, hand trembling, reached up to touch Antonio’s lips. Soft, kind lips they were. Lovino’s thumb caressed the cupid’s bow, his other fingers cupping Antonio’s jaw. His pulse was fluttering like a bird preparing for takeoff.

“You read the books.” A look of awe had wormed it’s way onto Antonio’s face, as though he was just remembering their earlier conversation. He was smiling beneath Lovino’s fingers, drunk and happy. Lovino wanted to deny the accusation, if only to save face, but he found that his mouth could not form the words. It was because of Lovino that Antonio was smiling, and Lovino couldn’t bear to see the exuberant look on Antonio’s face disappear.

At that moment, there was nothing better to Lovino than this feeling in his chest—too wide, too full, too warm, and yet, entirely too perfect in how it fit beneath his breastbone.

“Yes, I did.” He muttered back, an affirmation at last, and from there it was unstoppable, irreversible, Lovino was breathing Antonio’s air—

“Where the fuck is my brother?!” A voice boomed from downstairs, jarring and _loud,_ somehow louder than the collective voice of the rest of the people at the party. The voice washed over them, cutting through the sliver of space between Lovino and Antonio.

It was as though someone had poured ice water down the back of his shirt. Lovino took a clumsy step back, unable to meet Antonio’s eyes, as the voice called out again, “Where is Matthew?”

 _Fuck_ , Lovino recognized that voice.

“Alfred.” He whispered. “Fucking- _shit._ ”

“He came here with Vargas!”

Lovino thought, hysterically, _which Vargas? There’s two of us_ , _you know._

_“You Italians all look the same.”_

The music had stopped playing.

Lovino was down the stairs in a second, his gut twisted and his fists balled. He hadn’t seen Matthew since… since they’d grabbed drinks and Matthew had announced that he had to piss. After that… Lovino had been distracted, too caught up in getting drunk to worry about the passing time. Lovino felt for his phone, pulling it out of his pocket to see a slew of “where are you” texts from Matthew. The last one was from nearly an hour ago. Then, Matthew had no doubt given up.

 _Fuck,_ though Lovino. There were only so many places Matthew could disappear off to and remain on property, and Lovino was mentally shuffling through each and every one of them. He had a terrible vision of Matthew lying in the bushes outside, cold and choking on his own vomit.

“I’m here you fucking asshole, what do you want?” Lovino snapped, fighting to push back his worry for Matthew, steadying himself on the railing. Gilbert, who had appeared rather suddenly, held Lovino’s elbow in an attempt to ground him.

Alfred, unlike the majority of the people at the party, looked stone cold sober and _pissed._ He was wearing a large, dark coat, which was slightly wet—why was it slightly wet? Lovino was finding it hard to focus, but Alfred’s furious expression and looming frame made him hard to not pay attention to.

Gilbert stepped forward. “Look, man, this is my place. Forget about Vargas, he’s an idiot, I’ll help you find your bro—”

Alfred, whose gaze had not moved from Lovino’s, interrupted. “No. Lovino convinced Matthew to come here, so I want to talk to Lovino _fucking_ Vargas.” Then, “Fuck off, Beilschmidt.”

Lovino, still heavily intoxicated but feeling decidedly more sober than he had five minutes ago, scoffed. “I don’t remember telling you where me and my friend were hanging out, jerkoff.”

Alfred’s eyes narrowed further. The twisted feeling in Lovino’s stomach was back again.

“No, but _he_ told be that he was coming here with you because Matthew is my fucking brother, faggot.”

The word caused Lovino’s gut to tighten, forcing the hot fire that had been building there to overcome the rest of him. It built in his cheeks in the form of a blush, yes, but that was a side-effect. The fury caused his fists to ball, his toes to curl over themselves with the force of it. Lovino, empowered by his rage, stood taller, nearly blinded from hatred and indignant rage.

“ _What the fuck did you just say to me_?” Lovino snapped, in Italian, before repeating himself in English, “No, seriously, Alfred _fucking_ Jones, what did you just say to me? The kettle calling the pot black, I guess. Because you, Jones, are the biggest faggity-fag of us all!”

Lovino threw his arms out, emphasizing his last sarcastic point. Someone in the crowd surrounding the staircase made an “oo-ing” noise. Alfred sneered.

“Fuck off, Vargas. Everyone knows that your brother will suck anyone’s dick for a half a joint and a bowl of tater tots.”

Lovino could barely breathe. Alfred was just trying to get him riled up, Lovino reasoned with himself. _What he’s saying makes no goddamn sense._ Feli might’ve been a junkie, sure, but he was no slut for dick. Well, he _was,_ but only for Ludwig’s. And even though Lovino hated himself for thinking it, it was true. Feliciano had a reputation for a lot of things, but he was a faithful boyfriend, at least to the extent of Lovino’s knowledge.

And their bedrooms were right next to one another, so Lovino probably would’ve known if something was up anyway.

But despite the fact that Lovino knew the accusations against his brother were false, and that anyone who knew Feliciano certainly understood that as well, Lovino couldn’t help but step forward. By this point, he and Alfred were nearly touching chests. Lovino had to crane his head up to meet Alfred’s eyes, and his shoulders were nearly twice as wide as Lovino’s, but that didn’t matter. His fists, already clenched, came to hover above his chest. Lovino was posed for a fight, and a fight he would get.

“Alfred? Lovino? What the fuck?” A voice broke through the stirring crowd. Lovino, without thinking, took an automatic step back from Alfred, who was breathing hard.

Matthew came to stand next to Lovino, confusion written across his features.

Lovino, who by this point could feel a tight burn throughout his forehead and eyeballs, noted astutely that Matthew was not in fact lying in a ditch somewhere dead.

“That’s good.” Lovino mumbled. His previous assumption that he’d been sober was 110% incorrect. “I’d hate to die today.”

Alfred, ignoring Lovino, glared at his brother instead, accusing, “Are you drunk?”

Matthew was not, in fact, drunk. Even Lovino could tell by the clarity of his eyes and the steadiness of his posture. He was perhaps slightly tipsy, but he was coherent enough to state, rather flatly, “No, Alfred. I am not drunk.” Then, in an impressive, and rather un-Matthew-like manner, he added, “What do you think you’re doing here, anyway? I can take care of myself, you know.”

At this, Alfred seemed to deflate. His shoulders slumped and his hands unclenched. He ran a defeated hand across his brow, collecting the sweat that had pooled there. The partygoers seemed to take Alfred’s actions as an end to the fight, and the crowd slowly began to dissipate. The music started back up, softer than before but still far too loud to Lovino’s throbbing eardrums.

“I know, Mattie.”

Matthew sniffed, ducking his head. He rubbed the back of his neck anxiously. Lovino followed the movement, halting at the sight of a stained blue-red mark on his friend’s skin. It was distinctly mouth-shaped. Lovino would have to question his friend about that later.

“Well,” Gilbert said, clapping his hands together, “every awesome party needs a fight, _ja?_ But Alfred—it was Alfred, right?—you should leave now before I call the cops. Can’t have you around to ruin the…” Gilbert made a vague gesture, gyrating his wrist to indicate toward the party as a whole, “atmosphere.”

Alfred came back to himself, sneering slightly even as he moved toward the door, “Only for them to find all this underage drinking? You’re real fucking stupid if you think that’s a good—Antonio?”

Lovino whipped around, or he tried to—his eyes moved slower than his head and he was left with a revolving world.

When he refocused, Lovino found Antonio with ease—in the aftermath of the not-fight, everyone on the stairs had cleared out, leaving the pathway easy to navigate. Leaning against the railing, about halfway up, was Antonio. His eyes were focused, even as they spun in Lovino’s vision. Ignoring Alfred’s greeting, Antonio gave Lovino an awkward half-smile, and in that smile Lovino saw regret coupled with pity. Antonio Carriedo _pitied_ him.

For what, Lovino wasn’t sure. Perhaps that he was so ridiculously drunk. Perhaps that they’d almost kissed— _kissed—_ and Antonio was now thinking twice about his actions. Perhaps it was simply that Lovino had tried to go up against Alfred and behaved so pathetically that it was pitiable.

Lovino recalled then, the spiteful _I guess that’s how we’re different, Lovino._ The memory of Antonio’s lips, warped by cruelty (despite the accuracy, the _fucking_ truth, _failure failure failure_ repeated a mantra in Lovino’s head), made Lovino sick.

Maybe it was due to the beer and vodka sloshing around inside Lovino’s stomach, but he suddenly _couldn’t_ be in the Beilschmidt foyer any longer. His skin felt flayed, and his throat felt too tight—and he couldn’t breathe.

Before he fully comprehended his actions, Lovino had pushed past Alfred and was out the door. It was drizzling lightly, and _oh_ that was why Alfred’s coat had been damp, and Lovino stumbled down the steps anyhow, ignoring the muted shouts after him—or perhaps that was just in his own warped mind.

Lovino only got a few paces into the yard before he collapsed onto his knees, clutching the dewy grass in between his fingers. Nausea overwhelmed him, coupled with his eyesight still wavering. Lovino coughed, sputtered, bile building at the back of his throat and sticking there.

Lovino’s eyes cracked slightly as the urge to vomit receded. Footsteps, light across the lawn, and then shoes in Lovino’s line of sight—familiar, scuffed and frayed. Lovino raised his head, not without effort for it felt as though a ten pound weight was attached to his jaw, tugging him back toward the earth.

Antonio stood above him, looming in the fractured moonlight and the hazy yellow of the streetlamp. His face, cast entirely in shadow, was rendered unreadable. A single hand was outstretched, palm facing the speckled sky.

“Give me your car keys.”

The sound was warped. Lovino felt suddenly very, very tired. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “What?” he asked.

“You’re not safe to drive.”

And wow. Hypocritical, because not even thirty minutes ago Antonio had been completely smashed—perhaps worse than Lovino had been. Antonio himself was in no position to drive. Or maybe he’d meant only to take Lovino’s keys to prevent him from getting behind the wheel, to encourage Lovino to stay and rest.

Lovino didn’t know. Lovino couldn’t tell, because Antonio’s voice was unreadable. Lovino kind of hated it--Antonio had always been expressive, even if those expressions were confounding and excessive. Lovino wished, now more than ever, that he knew what Antonio was thinking.

Then Lovino remembered that Antonio was expecting an answer. A lump, irrational yet building all the same, lodged in his chest. Weakly, Lovino spat, “You fucking asshole, I live two blocks away. I goddamn walked here.”

Antonio hummed, and it almost sounded like sympathy. Lovino would take it.

Instead of handing over his car keys as Antonio expected, Lovino took Antonio’s hand instead. He pushed himself off the ground, stumbling only slightly forward as he did so. He was feeling less and less affected by the booze, and more and more exhausted. It pulled at his eyelids, and for a moment Lovino closed them and allowed himself to simply float.

“Lovino? Hey,” Antonio shook his shoulder gently. Lovino leaned into the touch before remembering where he was, and who he was with. His eyes jerked open.

He and Antonio were surprisingly close together. That was twice in one evening. Lovino would have to start keeping track, at the rate they were going.

Antonio huffed a laugh against his cheek, and Lovino had said that aloud, hadn’t he? At least it had brought emotion back onto Antonio’s face—amusement tinged with a certain shyness, indicated by the elusiveness of Antonio’s eyes and hitch of his breath as Lovino drew closer.

Lovino, hyper aware of himself, felt his phone vibrate in his back pocket. He was tempted to ignore it, Antonio was _right there,_ but it could be Feli, or worse, his Nonno. Lovino would never forgive himself if his family was trying to reach him and he’d somehow managed to ignore them for a boy.

“Sorry,” Lovino muttered, not entirely sure what he was apologizing for, and he drew his phone out. It was a text, but it wasn’t from his brother or grandfather.

 **Sadiq (2:12 am):** eyyyy whats up

Lovino squeezed his phone, the plastic cutting into his fingers, frustration coursing through him. He’d stepped away from Antonio, retreated from his second chance, to check a text from Sadiq, of all people.

Wasn’t that just Lovino’s fucking luck?

Antonio was still standing there, arms slightly outstretched as though he wanted to recapture Lovino’s and hold them tight. But the moment was fractured, as it had been before, and to return was to admit defeat—to admit that Lovino wasn’t just caught up in the moment. That Lovino might legitimately enjoy being around Antonio, being in his presence, being close to him, being able to _touch_ him…

“It’s my grandfather,” Lovino lied, around the lump in his throat and the pit of guilt in his stomach, “he’s wondering where I am, so…”

Antonio’s voice was neutral as he said, “Alright. I’ll talk to Alfred and make sure he and Matthew get home.”

 _Oh._ They must’ve still been in the house, then. Lovino hadn’t seen them leave.

Lovino moved past Antonio, determined to put one foot in front of the other. Matthew’s things were still in his room, but he didn’t want to face Matthew now. If it were up to Lovino, he’d never have to set foot inside the Beilschmidt residence again.

“Goodnight, Antonio.” Lovino said, softly, quiet enough that he almost hoped that Antonio wouldn’t hear him.

But he did. And the answering reply, “Goodnight,” made Lovino’s chest ache. It was different than before, but still pressing—forcing frustrated tears to his eyes.

Lovino didn’t look back. Walking home was a struggle, and Lovino had to focus just on putting one foot in front of another. He regretted not kissing Antonio. He regretted placing himself in the position to potentially kiss Antonio in the first place.

Clumsily, Lovino climbed the steps to his house. The door swung inward, casting shadows in the dark entryway. Lovino closed the door as quietly as possible, climbing the stairs mechanically. As he trooped past his brother’s room, he cracked the door. The bed was empty, sheets in a disarray—no doubt in the same position that Feliciano had left them in after waking up that morning. Lovino shut the door.

In his own room, Lovino toed his shoes off. Unable to do much else, he fell face-first onto the bed. In a moment of clarity, he pulled his phone from his pocket, typing an anxious “are you ok” text to Feli. Then, guilty, he typed “im sorry” to Matthew, debated, and hit send.

Neither replied. Lovino stared at the bright screen in the dark of his room, waiting. It was in that position that he eventually fell asleep, nearly twenty minutes later, phone cushioned between his cheek and the pillow.

That night, Lovino dreamed of nothing at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And it only took me 5 months to write. Oops. In my defense, I’m taking 18 credits this semester, so I long for the sweet release of death as it might finally give me time to relax.  
> A few notes about this chapter:  
> -The Circus Maximus was a large horseracing track in Ancient Rome. Horse racing was a common source of entertainment for average citizens and nobility alike (especially before the Colosseum was built). It is now mostly gone, and what remains is a large field that is open to the public.  
> -The eyes of Dr. T. J. Eckleburg represent the eyes of God, watching over the characters in The Great Gatsby. Like they watch the characters of the novel, they watch (and hardcore judge) Lovino.  
> -I hate dream sequences, and was strongly considering cutting the one in this chapter out if not for two reasons: 1. I love the ending of this chapter and needed a reference point for an earlier occurrence in which Lovino did dream of something 2. There was some Gatsby imagery going on (which I didn’t realize until after I wrote it) and I thought that it wasn’t too bad when you parallel it to the scene where Gatsby gets shot and dies in a pool (spoilers srry). Falling in love is kind of like dying I guess? Idk, I’m doing my best here okay.  
> -If Lovino seems dramatic, that’s because he is. The whole “black abyss” paragraph made me laugh with it’s ridiculousness but I honestly felt as though it fit. He’s a bit of a drama queen.  
> -Kölsch is a type of German beer. I literally googled it because I know nothing about beer. Apparently it’s good (?) but is any beer truly good? Sounds fake to me.  
> -There is a really interesting discussion to be had about various types of slavery around the world in history. I strongly recommend looking into it if you're interested in world politics/history. Also (although there was a system of oppression in place- forced indentured servitude) the Irish were never subject to slavery as people from Africa were in colonial and early U.S. history, and indigenous people in Central/South America were under the Spanish and Portuguese.  
> -The Tiber is pretty gross, but “taupe-colored” is a bit of an exaggeration. Still not somewhere you’d want to go swimming, though.  
> -Props if you can spot the PruCan. It’s so minimal it’s basically nonexistent. I might or might not write a oneshot about them later, set in this verse.  
> -I tried to write Lovino’s inner monologue/actions as though he was truly drunk. Although I have never known a someone who’s drunk to hesitate to share saliva with another willing drunk person, but that’s neither here nor there. (shhhh. For the plot).  
> I haven’t even begun to THINK about the next chapter (which is gonna be mostly filler anyway, probably) and I’ve been inspired to write a few other things recently (original and fanfic) so this might not be updated for another five months. If that’s the case, I apologize in advance.  
> Translations (I used google translate for most of these so they’re probably horribly botched. I’m sorry):  
> Grazie (Italian): Thank you  
> Mi dispiace (Italian): I’m sorry  
> Mamman (French): Mother/mom. (I’ve never taken French, though I know to that the English “‘s” is not the way to indicate possession. I apologize to French people everywhere)  
> Dummkopf (German): fool/dumbass  
> Mon petit ange (French): my small/little angel  
> Was is los (German)- “What’s/is up?”

**Author's Note:**

> Wow this fic totally went in the opposite direction I planned for it to. I have no idea where this thing is gonna end, since there's tons of backstory and subplot-esque conflicts to build and resolve. Expect a little bit of slow burn folks.  
> On that note, I know there wasn't much Lovi/Antonio interaction in this chapter, but there’ll be way more in the next chapter I promise.  
> I also might not be able to update for a while bc life always manages to fuck me over as soon as motivation strikes. But I’ll do my best!  
> PS I don't hate America or Russia or China-and Lovi will realize shortly why they do/did some of the things they've done  
> PPS Ms. B is totally Belarus. Just saying.


End file.
